Years of Dreams Just Can't Be Wrong
by tito72
Summary: Presenting Steve and Tony in the Anastasia!AU Tony's got a plan: find a look-alike for the lost Tsarevich and take him to Paris to pass off as the real thing to General Fury for a reward of ten million rubles. The look-alike he finds is Steve, an orphan with no memory of his past and a personality that clashes with Tony's in almost every way.
1. Chapter 1

Tony dreams about that night, sometimes, the night his world fell apart. He dreams of the colors of the women's dresses, the elegance of the men's suits, things he never sees in these days of gray work coats and battered boots. He dreams of the noise of the music, a mixture of Western ballads, revised folk tunes, and of course, the classics: Balakirev, Tchaikovsky, Borodin. But most of all, he dreams of the boy, the Tsarevich. It hadn't been easy, sneaking away together, but they'd always managed it. They were careful, oh so careful, only spending stolen minutes together in cramped closets or deserted hallways, never lingering for longer than a few kisses. That night, though, they'd been more careless than usual, stayed long enough to get one another's pants around their knees so they could fumble together. They'd barely been finished when the guard had found them, and Tony remembers the panic, the sheer terror that he'd felt, before he realized that being caught out was the least of their problems, now. "Go," Tony remembers the man saying, "Your parents are dead. Run. Go. Hide in plain sight."

And that, that's when Tony always wakes up, sweating despite the cold and hungry in a way he'd never been for the first fifteen years of his life, before that terrible night. He's used it by now, though, used to starving in Stalin's Russia. He'd starved the whole way through the awful years of the civil war, and now, even when things are supposedly more stable, what with Stalin's Five Year Plan fixing the country, he still goes hungry more often than he'd like. He should have given up the game when Bruce left, over a year ago, gone to work for the state, but Tony'll be damned if he ever becomes one of those hopeless souls marching every day to and from the factory. Besides, Bruce had an advantage in his peasantry origin that Tony, son of aristocrats, does not; Bruce could get a job working directly for the politburo and no matter how they looked, they'd never find anything imperial in his background. Even if it has been ten years since  
Tony started living this new, hidden life, he still worries at times that someone might recognize him for what he is. The Communists have never, in the years they've been in power, hesitated to have perfectly ordinary citizens executed, so he knows that he, as a remnant of the Tsar's court, would be dead in a heartbeat if anyone with even a little authority ever found out about his past. It's safer this way, and if he does get caught in the act of forging documents or transporting stolen goods, well, hopefully they'll just send him to the labor camps without looking too closely at his citizenship papers or his aristocratic brow.

And anyway, Tony's not sure what he'd do if he ever gave up this life. Not that it's in the cards, anyway. He'd have to strike a gold mine, or more realistically, go into the West. There are a few Russian nobles left, he knows, especially in the shining city of Paris, where they congregate and play make-believe that their world hasn't already come to an end. He could go there, maybe be accepted into their circle. The journey, though, wouldn't be easy, and he'd need a hell of a reason to attempt to make it. Until he finds one, he just gets up every morning and goes out into his city to make a little trouble.

The guards in the city are multiplying, Tony notices one morning as he's pocketing stolen bread from the baker's. It makes him feel better to know he's stealing from the state, instead of from some poor hard-working peasant. These days, everything belongs to the state, even Tony, if he'd let them have him. He finds a quiet alley, out of the wind to eat in, but he has to duck away from his hiding spot halfway through the loaf when one of the guards starts his way. He finds another, even quieter alley to hide in, instead, and curses the state and their policemen.

It's because of all the new factories going up, he knows, this increase, but Tony's a product of the old school, where a man (or a boy, in his case) could build his inventions without the state ever being involved, apart from, perhaps, the Tsarevich smiling brightly whenever he was presented with Tony's latest work. He remembers very clearly the last gift he gave to the Tsarevich, if one doesn't count the orgasm he helped him achieve on that dark, terrible night, the last time they saw each other (which, for the record, Tony generally does not count, because that's just crass and the Tsarevich had been so sweet). It had been a star the size of a large coin, held on a chain. It was very well crafted and by Tony's own hand, but the truly remarkable thing about it had been that it opened like a clamshell and could be wound up to play a soft, sweet lullaby. Music boxes are nothing new, but this one in particular was small enough to be worn as a locket, hidden under a shirt. Secrecy had been key, then, because of their delicate situation and sinful nature, and Tony had worked for months on the little toy, first taking apart and putting together clocks to study how they work, then finding and piecing together the metal and gears of the locket. His finest work, if he does say so himself.

As he finishes up his bread and heads back into the windy street toward the abandoned theater where he does his work, Tony wonders vaguely where the locket is now. Probably at the bottom of a ditch in the middle of the forest, where they dumped the bodies of the royal family. Of course, there are rumors that the Tsarevich managed to escape execution. They're quite prevalent, in fact, and have been ever since the Revolution. He was a sickly little boy, Tony remembers, but he had the most intriguing blonde hair and blue eyes. Not many Russians look like that, so the probability of him hiding in plain sight like Tony has these past years is pretty slim. Still, he may have escaped, and Tony hopes so, because apparently he becomes a complete and total sap every time he even thinks about the Tsarevich. It's a weakness, and Bruce disapproved of the whole thing for safety's sake, but Tony, well, he's always been one to play a dangerous game.

It's odd, because he's been thinking about it this morning, but in the afternoon one of Tony's regular customers brings the rumor up as Tony's finishing up his papers to import goods. Tony's thinking about the stolen cargo of Spanish pears, already hungry again, so he's not really paying attention to the man's gossip. At least, until he hears that name, the one he remembers from ten years ago. Fury.

"Wait, what?" Tony asks, looking up and accidently smudging ink all down his arm. He sounds urgent, he knows, and hates it, but the man doesn't even blink. Apparently this particular rumor is a hot commodity. Everyone's interested in the last Tsar and his family in these gray days and nostalgic for his rule, and since Fury leads the small band of exiled nobles in France, his name is inextricably linked to theirs.

"General Fury," the man repeats, happy to be allowed to tell his story again. "Apparently he's offering a reward now, for anyone that might have information on the whereabouts of the lost Tsarevich. And of course, if anyone actually brings the Tsarevich to him, he's willing to pay double."

"How much?" Tony asks, making sure to keep his tone calm this time. This might be the goldmine he's been looking for and he's got plans already for how to extricate the gold, but he sure as hell isn't stupid enough to show it. He commands a certain amount of respect in this business, because he's been at it so long, but he knows there are plenty of men out there who would slit his throat to take his throne, if he ever lets on any of his tricks.

The man leans in and whispers, "Ten million," and Tony's breath catches, despite his best efforts.

"Well," he says coolly, recovering quickly. "It's a lot, but who even knows where the Tsarevich is. He could be dead, for all we know and that money is just going to go to waste."

"Yeah," the man says, mournfully. He stands and takes the documents that Tony holds out. "Well, best be going, if I want to get to the port in time to meet my suppliers. Thanks for these." He starts to walk away, but Tony hurriedly makes a grab for his arm.

"Forgetting something?" he asks, pointedly, grinning viciously with all his teeth and holding out his palm.

"Right," the man says and slips him the money. It's less than what some of the other forgers in the city charge, but that's one of Tony's tricks of the trade. He charges slightly less, so more people come to him. It's basic supply and demand; Tony knows too much about capitalism to ever be a good communist, but just the right amount to be a fantastic forger. His clear, precise script and steady hand don't hurt, either.

As Tony pockets the money, he thinks about the ten million rubles up for grabs. There's no way anyone's going to just happen across the actual Tsarevich, which gives Tony, with his skills of deception, an above average chance to get that money. It shouldn't be too hard to train someone to pretend to be the Tsarevich and Tony knows way more than most people the kind of intimate details about the royal family that will convince even General Fury of the authenticity of Tony's look-alike. All he has to do is find someone with a bit of acting talent that looks reasonably like the Tsarevich, all grown up, and that, he thinks, that'll be easy.

He's dead wrong, actually. It is absolutely not easy to find a Tsarevich look-alike, not in this town. In America, maybe, where the boys with blonde hair and blue eyes just multiply, he'd have better luck, but in Petrograd, his prospects are pretty narrow. Tony puts out the word, to certain groups only, of course, that he's holding auditions in the old theater and that there's serious money to be made, but of the two dozen that show up, only a handful of them would actually pass for anything like the Tsarevich physically, and of those, only one or two have any skill at all in acting.

"I'll let you know," Tony says, to the last candidate, but the man must know rejection when he hears it, because his eyes narrow and he spits on the ground before stomping off the stage. Tony sighs when he's gone, slumps back in his seat. He'd been so sure this is the path he's supposed to take, but he just doesn't know how he can, with these limited resources.

He thinks about the problem some more, as he's packing up to leave, headed home for the night. Maybe if he goes abroad first, he can find a foreigner to play the part. That seems like something of a travesty, though, an injury to Tony's small bit of nationalism. Perhaps he should try other cities first, Moscow, maybe. And, then, if that doesn't work out, then he can try to lure in some foreigner.

On his way out the door, Tony's so busy thinking about the next steps in his plan that he walks straight into someone and knocks them down.

"Sorry," he says, almost meaning it. He's been having sort of a rough day, and that always makes him more compassionate to the plights of others. Bruce always used to say it was the only human thing about him, a malfunction, perhaps, in the cogs and gears that ran his brain.

He holds out a hand to the man, who's so bundled up Tony can hardly see his face. The man takes it and heaves himself to his feet. He's taller than Tony by a few inches and his face, what Tony can see of it, anyway, is flushed from the cold.

"Are you Tony?" the man asks, muffled from his scarf and Tony smiles as he realizes this man's probably a customer.

"Sure am," he tells him, and fumbles behind him for the latch of the door. "Come on in, and we can talk."

He guides the man back inside the theater, where it's at least slightly warmer and there are tables to write on. Most of Tony's business comes from regulars and their referrals, but this man is no one he recognizes and people usually mention to him when they're sending someone new over, just in case the police get ideas about undercover operations or anything. He does occasionally get walk-ins, however, and if this man is willing to pay, the day might not be such a waste, after all.

"Make yourself comfortable," Tony tells him once they're inside. He himself pulls off his coat and slumps back into his usual chair.

The man takes his time getting undressed, probably due to the fact that he's wearing two coats and at least three scarves.

"Wow," Tony says, admiringly. No wonder he'd been so easy to knock off balance, with all that stuff on. "Did you decide to wear out everything you own today, or what?" he laughs, but the man just says, "Yes," very seriously, and keeps taking off his layers.

That just makes Tony laugh even more, because what the fuck, who is this freak? Then, though, the guy gets all his outer layers off and Tony stops laughing at once. Because, the thing is, this guy has blonde hair and blue eyes. Even on top of that, though, he's also an absolute dead ringer for the Tsarevich. None of the others had even come close, and this man, he could be the Tsarevich's twin. He's a good deal stronger-looking than the Tsarevich ever was, of course, but it's not impossible that a sickly kid could grow up to be perfectly healthy. Or, that's what he'll tell Fury, anyway.

"Are you here for the audition?" he manages, mouth slightly dry from the thought of all those rubles he's going to make.

"What audition?" the guy asks, taking the seat opposite Tony.

Tony thinks fast. If this guy doesn't know about the audition and is just here for Tony's other services, it means he probably also doesn't know anything about Fury's reward. Maybe there's a way Tony can trick him into helping with the con without revealing to him the money at all. Then Tony could have it all to himself.

"Never mind," he says, quickly. "There's just this play. Anyway, what can I do for you…?" He pauses for the guy to supply his name and stares until he takes the hint.

"Oh," he says, blushing slightly. "I'm Steve."

"Steve," Tony says, with rubles in his eyes. He'd never used it except in their private moments together, but the Tsarevich's name had been Stepan. This has to be a sign. "What can I do for you, Steve?"

"Well," Steve says, slowly, like he's not sure where to start. "I'd like to go to Paris."

Here, Tony only barely keeps himself from choking. What are the odds, really? Somewhere out there, someone is definitely looking out for Tony. This whole thing might be even easier than he ever dreamed. He nods, encouragingly for Steve to keep going. Steve just stares at him, though, shy and unsure of how to proceed.

"Any particular reason why?" Tony prompts. He needs all the information he can get, if he's going to work this con from both ends.

"I'm from the orphanage," Steve blurts out, and Tony blinks deliberately at the non sequiter, making the other man blush even worse, before he continues, "I grew up there, I mean. When I was about fourteen, they found me wandering around with blood all over me and no memory of where I'd come from. It was a head injury, they said, but I was pretty dazed when they first brought me in, and I kept repeating one word: 'Paris.' They let me stay there, and I kept working there after I was too old to be one of the orphans, but I've always figured that whatever I was looking for, before I lost my memory, it must be in Paris. And now, they're shutting the orphanage down, building a new one, so I figured this is my chance to see if I can find whatever it is I can't remember."

"Uh huh," Tony says, slowly. "I see. So you don't remember anything at all about who you used to be?"

"Nothing," Steve confirms. He's settled a bit, now that he's gotten his story out, and it's good, because now's the perfect time for Tony to bring up his idea. Subtly, of course, and no matter what Bruce said, Tony can totally do subtle.

"I wish I could help you," Tony tells him, solemnly. "I really do. But I can't."

"Oh," Steve says, quietly, clearly disappointed. He wears his emotions on his face, must never have learned not to, but that, too, suits Tony's purposes. "Well, thanks any-"

"Because the thing is," Tony says over him. "I'm headed to Paris myself. Got two tickets, in fact. But I'm on a mission, see. Have you ever heard of the lost Tsarevich?"

"Of course," Steve says, looking slightly hopeful again, now that Tony's mentioned the tickets.

"Well, I've made it my mission to find him and return him to General Fury, who happens to be living in Paris and desperately wants him back. So, the other ticket, it's for him."

"Isn't he lost, though?" Steve asks, and Tony smiles, winningly.

"I've got an idea or two on where to find him," he answers.

"Where?" Steve sounds intrigued, as any proper Russian should be, and this, this is the point Tony's been waiting for.

"Have you ever looked into a mirror, Steve?" he asks, instead of answering.

Steve looks taken aback for a second, then shakes his head. "The orphanage didn't have one," he explains.

"Pity," Tony tells him, "because you've got a very distinct look. In fact, you look an awful lot like the lost Tsarevich himself. You're about the right age, too, I bet."

"Wait," Steve says, slowly, eyes going wide. "Are you trying to tell me you think I'm the lost Tsarevich?"

"Well," Tony says, reasonably, "you said you don't remember where you came from and no one knows where he went. Who's to say you're not him?"

"Tony," Steve says, and he sounds regretful, for Tony's sake, to have to say it, "I'm not the Tsarevich. That's crazy-talk. I'm sorry."  
He stands up to leave, then, and Tony hurriedly stands, too, leans across the table to grab his hand.

"Hold on," he says, urgently. He absolutely cannot let this man leave. He needs him. "How about this: come to Paris with me. We'll go see Fury, and he'll obviously know right away whether you are or aren't the Tsarevich. If you're not, you can stay in Paris and try to find whatever it is you think is there for you and I'll keep looking for the real Tsarevich. But if you are, well, then you'll know exactly what you've been searching for this whole time. What do you say?"

Steve thinks it over for a long minute, then takes a deep, unsteady breath. He looks Tony right in the eyes and says, "Okay. It's a deal."

"Great," Tony says, and does a little happy dance on the inside. He's got a plan and he's got the guy, and soon, so soon he can almost taste it, he'll have the ten million rubles, too. "Next stop: Paris."


	2. Chapter 2

Strictly speaking, of course, the next stop is actually back to Tony's flat, because the ticket office at the train station closes at nine and even if, technically, they're not buying tickets, most people on board the train will be. The key to blending in with the crowd, and thereby not getting caught with a forged ticket, is to make sure a crowd is actually present, which means waiting until the morning rush of travelers tomorrow. It's not too bad of a wait, really, in Tony's experience. Back during the war, before he had the experience to forge papers, he'd been one of the many orphans smuggling things into the country for sale on the black market. The market was newer, then, or at least this version of it, and since all the smugglers were still adjusting in those early days, learning how to work in this new government, the end result was frequent delays, days and days in which Tony and his street friends could only wait and hope the whole thing wasn't a set-up. The government's still evolving, of course, but by this point, Tony's pretty much seen it all, and this little wait is kid stuff. Plus, it'll give them time to rest before they brave the dangers of the border police.

And on that note, Tony thinks, he'd better go ahead and offer Steve his bed. The flat's not bad, as far as it goes. It's on the cheap side of town, sure, with drafty windows and a broken flue. He freezes in the winter and swelters in the summer, but it's clean and it's got a real bed, so Tony likes it. He never stays in one place too long, moves around a few times a year to keep anyone from becoming too familiar with him, so he's only been here about six months, but the neighbors are distant and the rats are small, so it's probably the best place he's lived in years. It'll be a shame to leave it, but with those ten million rubles, Tony could get out of this country once and for all. Not that he'll be able to live in Paris with the rest of the exiles, even if they'd have him, because once Fury finds out about the scam, Tony'll probably have to stay out of France altogether, probably forever. Germany's out, too, since their economy's for shit after the war, and Tony's heard some not-great things about their political situation, too. As much as he hates to admit it, America's probably his best bet. After all, he's heard there are no wars there.

But anyway, he can decide about all that later, once he's actually got the rubles in his hand. For now, all he has to worry about is keeping Steve and himself alive and out of the border patrol's clutches long enough to get to Paris. At this moment, that means getting a good night's sleep.

"You take the bed," Tony tells him, pulling off his coat and watching as Steve surveys the place from beneath his many layers.  
Steve turns to look at him, and his earnest eyes shine out from underneath his hat. "I couldn't," he says politely. "This is your place, so you should have it."

"Your Highness," Tony says, to make his point. "I insist. What do you think General Fury's going to say when I bring his Tsarevich back all bruised to hell because he wouldn't take the damn bed? It's not going to be a short trip to Paris, you know? Might as well get some good sleep while you can, right?"

"I'm not delicate," Steve says, rather more harshly than before, beginning to work himself out his overcoat. "I grew up in the orphanage, okay? I know how to sleep on a floor without bruising."

Tony scoffs, without even meaning to. "The orphanage, sure. I assume you mean the state-run orphanage where they feed you every day and find you a job after you're too old to stay there. Where you never have to sleep outside and get rained or snowed on all night and just hope you don't wake up dead. That orphanage?"

"It isn't like that," Steve says, deadly serious. "Do you know how many kids die in that orphanage every year because we can't get them the medicine they need? Do you understand what it's like to try to save a three-year old girl who's crying out for her dead mama and knowing there's nothing you can do to help her? Have you ever watched two boys get into a brawl over who gets the last scrap of bread?"

"Yes," Tony breathes. "I have." That last one, at least. He doesn't want to relive those days on the streets, though, and he sure as hell doesn't want to think about the look on Steve's face when he hears Tony say that, so he gets back to the point. "It doesn't matter. What matters is, you're the only princess in this room, so you're the one taking the bed."

"Please don't call me that," Steve says, finally getting all his coats and sweaters and hats off. He doesn't sound upset anymore, just tired. "Let's compromise. We'll both take the bed. It'll be warmer that way, anyhow."

"Fine," Tony agrees, but adds loftily, "But I'm being the big spoon."

Steve just laughs, which makes Tony think he's won the argument, compromise or not.

Actually getting in the bed is slightly awkward. Tony's shared beds with people before, boys and girls, in his younger days, or at least he's shared piles of blankets that served as beds, so this whole sharing thing isn't such a big deal. But the thing is, none of those people had ever looked as much like Tony's dead first love as Steve does. It shouldn't be a thing; it has been ten years, after all, since the Tsarevich was executed along with his family. Somehow, though, it is, and the whole affair makes Tony a little wary about where to put his hands or how he shifts his weight.

Eventually, they find a comfortable position where they're both lying back to back, shoulders touching occasionally when one of them shifts. It helps, not being face to face with that hair or those eyes, not being reminded of anything, and after a few minutes of lying there, Tony hears Steve's breathing even out. Good, Tony thinks, and lets himself sleep, too.

They're up and out the next morning before dawn and get to the station just before it opens. It's already pretty crowded with travelers, though not, Tony bets, as crowded as it would have been twenty years ago, before the wars and Stalin's Russia. Trains are relatively new, Tony knows, but for as long as he's been alive and longer, they've been a fixture in Russia. He doesn't remember their collapse or the food shortages during the Great War, just before the revolution, but he does remember the Soviets coming in afterward, trying to fix the whole mess. Whether they run more efficiently now is questionable, but what's certain is that they're under an extreme amount of observation. There could be guards on every train, and the likelihood doubles if the train is leaving the country. Since Tony needs to get at least as far as Germany, this presents a slight problem.

"Keep close," he tells Steve as they find a spot in the crowd. They've each got a bag with them, just enough to help them blend in, and inside Tony's is paper and ink that he's going to use to forge their tickets and exit visas, just as soon as he gets the chance. He could have done it before they left the flat, but he doesn't want Steve to see him do it, since he's putting up a front of being a loyal, upstanding Tsarist. Not that Tony's not loyal to the Tsar, or his memory anyway, but he's even more loyal to the idea of those ten million rubles, and he very expressly wishes to keep those a secret.

"I'll be fine," Steve tells him. "I'm not going to get lost."

"Maybe I was more worried you'd be kidnapped, Princess," Tony tells him, smirking. "You are a hot commodity, after all, in more ways than one."

Steve blushes, but he only says, "Stop calling me that."

Tony doesn't push it, but only because he wants to keep a low profile.

They manage to get onto the train and into an empty compartment without too much hassle, beyond Steve gawking open-mouthed at everything from the conductor to the dining car. Finally, after he almost runs into a wall because he's too busy looking at the ceiling to pay attention, Tony grabs his arm and hauls him along.

"Sorry," he says as Tony shuts the door to their compartment. "I've never been on a train before."

"Couldn't tell," Tony replies drily. "You looked like a pro to me."

"Do you have to be so sarcastic all the time?" Steve asks, sounding frustrated.

"Not at all," Tony tells him. "You just stop being so precious and I'll stop being so sarcastic. Deal?"

He's joking, of course, not expecting Steve to dignify that with an answer or maybe trying to make him angrier, Tony's not even sure. Steve apparently doesn't get it, though, because after some serious thought he says, "Alright," and sits down on one of the bench seats.

Huh, Tony thinks. It's just more proof that Steve really is a precious princess, though how he got that way while living in an orphanage is beyond Tony. Still, it could all be superficial. Steve seems like the type of guy who has some steel in him, underneath all the soft bits. That's not a euphemism, either, even if it does make Tony smile a bit, to think it. Still, if they had more time, Tony feels sure he'd like to get to know this guy. If they didn't kill each other first, of course.

Really, though, none of that stuff matters. Three days and they'll be in Paris, and then Tony'll be out. Out of Paris and out of the game, both, and no matter what Steve's like underneath, it's best not to get attached. Tony's learned his lesson too well on that point; getting attached only ever hurts in the end. Instead, he's just going to do what he has to and get them to Paris, and hopefully he and Steve will be fighting the whole time too loudly to get to know each other at all.

To that end, Tony sits down across from Steve, who's pulled a book out of his bag and begun to read. Tony gives it a minute to make sure he's fully immersed, then grabs out a book of his own. It's a ledger book, specifically, which contains all of Tony's transactions for the last few years, and also holds paper in the perfect size for forging tickets and exit visas. He digs for his fountain pen, too, the expensive one he saved up for so long to buy, and pulls it out. Then, with all his tools in hand, he sets to work.

By the time the Tony's finished with his forging, the train has left Petrograd and is well into the countryside. He's made good time, he thinks, as he inspects his handiwork. It's a work of art, really, with its fine, neat lines and the blue ink the state has been using lately.  
Satisfied, Tony sets everything aside and stands to stretch. The motion draws Steve's attention, and he looks up and smiles.

"Finish what you were working on?" he asks, happily. It seems the several hours since their last fight has left him in a good mood.

"Sure did," Tony tells him, happy despite himself. He's always loved making things, be they forged documents or music boxes inside lockets.

"You were really zoned out there, for a while," Steve tells him, but he doesn't sound like he minds. "I tried talking to you a few times, but I don't think you even heard me."

"Oh," Tony says. He hadn't heard anything, as a matter of fact. "Uh, sorry."

"It's fine," Steve says. "I was reading, anyway."

He holds up his book and Tony finally takes the time to glance at its cover. Then he double-takes, because what the fuck?

"Maxim Gorky? Are you crazy?" he asks, incredulously and a bit too loudly. He lowers his voice, just in case, and then continues, "He's a propaganda writer, Steve. He's a socialist."  
Steve looks taken aback. "Well," he says reasonably. "We are living in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. That really goes without saying. Everyone's a socialist, now."

"Not everyone," Tony says, acidly. "Do you even remember what they did to us?"

"To who?" Steve asks, clearly confused.

"To you," Tony corrects himself hurriedly. "What they did to you. You could be the Tsarevich, Steve, and if you are, these people murdered your family. And even if it turns out you're not the Tsarevich, you're still Russian. Don't you remember how we starved through the civil war, how the people died in the streets from hunger as they fought over politics? Or even now, the way the poor souls march to the factories to make things they can't afford while Stalin sits in his comfortable chair in front of the Politburo and decides they need to work harder? Don't you remember all of that?"

"I remember," Steve says, and his voice is quiet but underneath it is the steel Tony knew was there. "I remember all of those things. But even if the state is wrong, it's still the state and we belong to it. This life is the only one I've ever known, and the state has taken care of me as far back as I can remember. If that means the only books I can find to read are the ones approved by the state, I'm willing embrace that, for the good of Russian people."

"Well," Tony says snidely, standing up and grabbing his cigarette case out of his bag. "Clearly your memory wasn't the only thing affected when you had your accident. Come find me when you get your common sense back!" Then he's out the door.

Of course, two steps outside, he stops short in order to avoid knocking into a conductor loitering there. She's a very pretty redhead with her hair tucked up under her cap and a tempting smile. She's also looking right at Tony.

Tony swallows hard, sure she's heard every word of his and Steve's fight and is about to arrest them both. He should have expected this, after all. How could he be so stupid? That was not a fight they needed to have, now or ever, but especially not in a train full of Soviet spies while still in the country. Every moment this woman stares at him, unblinking, it feels like another second closer to the work camps. Tony counts them in his head, tries to think of a plan to warn Steve from a threat he probably doesn't even know is out there and waits.

Finally, the woman nods at him, dignified and silent, and walks away. She doesn't even ask for his ticket, just walks past him and goes on her way. Tony waits until she's out of sight before doubling over and catching his breath.

Then, he goes to have that cigarette, the one he really, really needs. He thinks about the conductor as he smokes. It's not unheard of, in these days, for a woman to be a conductor, not like it was in the days of the Tsar. Tony approves, abstractly, but he's never been anyone's hero, and he's certainly not a champion of women's rights. It's good that women are in a better position, now, but Tony would take it from them in a heartbeat to be back where he was before the revolution, hiding in a dark hallway with his first love. If that makes him selfish, so be it.

On his way back to the compartment, calm from the cigarette and almost ready to forgive Steve for buying into Soviet propaganda, he sees something that drives all that from his mind. A man is holding up his ticket for the woman beside him to see and Tony, on his way past them, can just make out the writing. It's not the writing that interests him, however. It's the ink. The ink is red.

"Oh shit," Tony breathes, and hurries back to the compartment to get Steve out of there. There's no time to fix it, now, since they're about the cross the border. The conductors will probably be around any minute to check the tickets and visas, and even Tony's not that good.

Steve looks up when Tony comes into the compartment and starts to say something, but Tony talks over him. "We've got to move," he says urgently.

"What?" Steve asks, confused. "Why?"

"It doesn't matter," Tony insists. He's trying not to worry Steve, but this important and if they're caught, it'll be so bad. Jail will be the least of their problems, really, once the state finds out what Tony's up to. "We just need to go, now."

He grabs his bag and helps Steve get his own stuff together, then leads him out into the corridor. He heads for the back of the train, where he knows the luggage compartment must be. Steve tries to ask what this is about as they're walking, but Tony just ignores him and keeps going.

"Here we go," he says, opening the door he wants and ushering Steve inside. "This is perfect."

He closes the door quickly and pushes a few heavy suitcases in front of it.

"This is the luggage compartment," Steve says, comprehension dawning. "Is there something wrong with our tickets?"

"Of course not," Tony tells him, insulted. "Our tickets are perfectly fine. They're just, you know, not in the right color ink."

"You're a forger, aren't you?" Steve accuses. "I should have known."

"Hey," Tony says indignantly. "What's that supposed to mean? I'll have you know, forging is a perfectly legitimate business."

"It's illegal," Steve points out, which, fair enough. That's never stopped Tony from doing what he wanted, though, and it's not going to stop him now, either.

When the pounding comes on the door, accompanied by the shouts of guards, he thinks fast. If they stay on the train, they'll probably be arrested for the fake tickets and the longer they stay in custody, the higher the probability that the government finds out about the con Tony's trying to pull. He's street savvy, but he's never had torture resistance training and if they break out the knives, it's all over. The solution, therefore, is to not stay on the train.

"I've got a plan," he says, and Steve looks at him, wide-eyed but ready. It's a dangerous one, and maybe it'll kill them, but staying here might do the same. "We're going to have to jump."

"What!" Steve says, more an exclamation than a question. "We'll be killed."

"Nah," Tony says, with a confidence he doesn't really feel. "I've done this before. As long as you do it right, you'll be fine."

He crosses to the side door and begins to heave it open. It's slow going, so he says, "Help me!" to Steve, who reluctantly comes over to pull, too. They get it open quicker that way, and then they're faced with the ground, flashing past yards below them.

"Okay," Tony says, and pulls Steve to stand next to him, right up close to the edge. "We're moving uphill, so the train's slowing. That's good. And there's just grass, no trees or anything to get hurt on, so we're golden. This is the best we could hope for."

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Steve tells him, but Tony ignores it.

"Make sure when you jump, you try to roll forward, over your shoulder," he says, and moves slightly backward to stand behind him. "Oh, and don't bite your tongue. Are you ready?"

"No," Steve says.

"Good," Tony says and pushes him off the train.

Tony doesn't even have time to see how he lands, just moves forward himself and gets ready to jump, just as the door behind him finally flies open. The last thing Tony sees, before he jumps, is the redheaded conductor, running right for him. Then he's in the air and all he can see is the ground coming up to meet him.


	3. Chapter 3

"You didn't have to push me."

Tony opens his eyes to see Steve staring over him, looking somehow both disapproving and concerned. It's worrying, but then Tony manages to wiggle all his fingers and toes and take a deep breath without too much pain, so that's something.

"It's tradition," he tells Steve, once he's sure nothing's broken. "Everyone gets a push their first time. And don't just stand there, your royal uselessness, help me up!"

Steve looks even more disapproving at the nickname, but he extends a hand down to Tony and helps him to his feet.

"Thanks," Tony says, once he's upright. He brings a hand to his forehead where it feels particularly sore and comes away blood on his fingers. "Huh," he says, but it doesn't feel too bad and he's certainly had worse over the years. Steve, once Tony gets a better look at him in the twilight, looks pretty rough too, with the very beginnings of a black eye and a torn coat sleeve.

"Are you okay?" he asks, in case Steve has some internal injuries Tony can't see or something.

"Yes," Steve says, "Are you?"

"Fine," Tony tells him. "It was a good jump. I wasn't lying about all those things I was saying before I shoved you."

"I can't believe you've jumped from a train before," Steve says incredulously. "I can't believe you're a forger! And apparently not a very good one, since we just had to jump off the train."

"That wasn't my fault," Tony says defensively. "Those tickets were perfect! They just weren't in the right color. Besides, this whole thing is more your fault than anything. If you didn't look so much like the goddamn Tsarevich we wouldn't even be in this situation."

"What on earth does that have to do with anything?" Steve asks bewildered.

"Come on, Steve," Tony says, frustrated with this whole thing, "Don't be stupid. Those guards would have taken one look at our forged tickets then at you and the next thing you know, we'd both be locked in interrogation rooms being questioned about our illegal activities in connection with General Fury's request to find the Tsarevich. Do you know what goes on in those interrogation rooms?"

"No," Steve admits.

"Me neither. And I'm not gonna find out. All I know is, sooner or later, we'd both have two rounds into the back of our heads, just like the royal family."

Steve flinches back, though whether from the idea or from the viciousness with which Tony says it, Tony has no idea. He doesn't care, either. He's right here; jumping was the smart thing to do, especially with the way that redheaded conductor was looking at him.

"Anyway," he says, looking around them in the gathering darkness. "Looks like we're going to have to hoof it for a while. We'll just follow the railroad tracks until we get to the next stop and figure it out from there."

"Do you even know where we are?" Steve asks, looking around as well.

"Sure I do," Tony says dismissively. "We're somewhere just past the border. They always check visas right after you cross the line."

"Okay," Steve says, brow furrowing. "So where are we, uh, specifically?"

"Oh, specifically I have no idea," Tony admits. "But we're definitely in Poland. Um, somewhere in Poland, for sure." He sees the look on Steve's face and quickly adds, "But it's no big deal. We'll just follow the tracks until we get to the next town."

"Then what?" Steve presses. "Are we going to get back on the train?"

"Good God, no," Tony says at once. "I'm not getting back on a train for at least a year, not after all that crap. We'll figure something else out once we get where we're going. Geez, do you have to have every little thing planned out before it happens?"

"Well, it would be nice," Steve agrees. "Not all of us can be terribly impulsive like you, Tony."

"And that is how you can tell you're not a good traveling partner," Tony tells him. "No sense of adventure, none at all."

"I'm not in this for adventure," Steve says solemnly. "I just want to get to Paris and find whatever it is that's waiting for me there."

"Okay," Tony says, and bends down to grab his bag at his feet. It's somehow managed to come through the jump relatively unharmed and intact, for which Tony is absolutely grateful. This bag is the only thing he has left in the world at this point and it's carried him through six of the eleven years he's been on the street. They've come too far together by this point to be separated now. "So go get your stuff and we'll get a move on. It's probably better that we walk at night, anyway. Less cold that way."

He waits for Steve to grab his bag from where he'd dropped it a few feet away and then they both climb up on to the tracks. It's easier this way than forcing their way through all the snow on either side of the things, and hopefully they'll leave fewer tracks, too. Tony doesn't think the border guards are that invested in keeping unauthorized people from escaping the Union, but it's better safe than sorry.

It takes them about four hours to walk to the nearest town. It's not exactly a comfortable walk, either. Even if the physical exertion keeps them warm enough not to freeze, the wind still manages to get through their layers to sting their skin. Tony ends up having to borrow one of Steve's various scarves to keep the lower half of his face from freezing right off. It's not the worst cold Tony's ever felt, but it's been a while since he's been without shelter and after four hours, Tony's definitely glad to reach the town.

Of course, once they get there, Tony realizes how suspicious it'll look, them just waltzing into town at this time of night only hours after two train hoppers disappeared at the border. Plus, it's not like Tony has extra money just lying around to rent a room somewhere. He knows, though, that if they don't get out of the cold, he's either going to go crazy or turn into an icicle.

"This looks promising," he says as they pass a farmhouse on the edge of the town. There's an old barn just past the house that looks like it's seen better days, but will provide shelter, at least. "Let's check it out."

"This is someone's property, Tony," Steve hisses, but he follows reluctantly whenever Tony opens the barn door and steps inside.  
It's better inside than Tony dared to hope. There are a few stalls, all but one filled with horses, and there's also a larger, more open area filled with pigs. It's considerably warmer than outside, especially after Steve closes the barn door behind them. Horses run warm, Tony knows, and apparently pigs do, as well.

"Look at this," Tony says, waving his arms to encompass the room. "Never before have I seen a barn so perfectly suited to my needs. Someone up there's looking out for us, Steve."

"I don't think we should stay here without asking, Tony," Steve tries again. "This place belongs to someone. It's not right."

"Clearly you've never been on the streets," Tony says as scornfully as he can manage. "Come on, it's not like we're hurting it. We'll just sleep here one night and be gone by morning. It'll all be fine, trust me. Unless- do you have any better ideas?"

"Well, no," Steve admits reluctantly. "But-"

"There you go then," Tony interrupts. He picks his way around the pig pen and peers into the empty stall. There's a layer of straw on the ground and around the sides, more than enough to burrow down into for warmth. "Come on," he waves Steve over.

Steve comes, but he doesn't look pleased about it. Well, that's just too bad, in Tony's opinion. Tony tries and he tries, but this guy's just never happy. Maybe he really is the Tsarevich; if he's royalty, at least that would explain some of the snotty attitude.

Of course, the Tsarevich was never like that, as Tony knows well. The Tsarevich was a sweet boy, with eyes that sparkled every time he smiled, which was often. He always, always appreciated the things Tony did for him. The way he smiled when Tony gave him the locket was so bright and happy that it nearly outshone the gift itself. He, at least, Tony thinks, would be grateful and content, even if all Tony had to offer was a barn full of pigs and horses to sleep in. Not like Steve, the jerk. If there was ever proof that Steve definitely is not the Tsarevich, this is pretty much it. Not that Tony needs the proof; he knows perfectly well that the Tsarevich is dead.

Suddenly in a much worse mood, Tony finds a comfortable spot and lies down, without waiting for Steve's commentary on the digs. He takes the right side of the stall and lies with his face to the divider. He doesn't want to have to watch as his royal highness over there makes faces about how wrong all of this is. He closes his eyes, and breathes deep. The smell of horses isn't so bad, and at least he's warmer than he would be outside.

Tony's very nearly asleep when Steve says, "Were you?"

"What?" Tony asks, jerking fully awake and not happy about it. "What are you yapping about?"

"Were you on the streets?"

"Yes," Tony says tersely, hoping he's giving off vibes that mean clearly, 'I don't want to talk about this.'

"What happened to your parents?" Steve asks, and Tony rolls over to face him, mostly so he can give him a 'what the fuck?' look.

"They're dead," he snaps. "Same as yours."

"Sometimes I hope mine aren't," Steve whispers. A beam of moonlight is shining through a crack in the ceiling right on his face, and his expression is almost heartbroken. Tony's not expecting the confession, and it brings his hackles down despite is best efforts to keep them up. "They might be out there, somewhere, and I just can't remember. Maybe they're in Paris."

"Maybe," Tony says, carefully. Part of him desperately wants a fight, so they won't have to talk about this, but he can't bring himself to be cruel when Steve looks this broken open. "You don't remember anything?"

"Nothing," Steve says. "The first thing I remember is waking up in the orphanage when I was fifteen. They couldn't tell me who I was or where I'd come from, only that I'd been talking in my sleep about Paris."

"Paris is a big place," Tony points out cautiously. "How are you going to know where to look, once we get there?"  
Steve shrugs. "I guess I'll just pick somewhere and start looking. I'll search house by house, if I have to."

"You know," Tony says, yawning. "For being such a snob, you're sure willing to put a lot of work into something that's not even a guarantee."

"I'm not a snob," Steve says, but he sounds less annoyed and more amused. "My moral compass just points very firmly north, unlike yours, apparently."

"Hey," Tony says, remembering suddenly a small piece he'd read in the paper the other day. "Did you hear about that new compass? The one that has the protractor built right onto it?"

"No," Steve says, sounding thrown by the sudden shift in the conversation. "I didn't know you were interested in orienteering."

"Oh, I'm not," Tony assures him. "It's the inventing process that interests me. I just think it's awesome how some guy in Sweden took something that was already invented and made it even better just by fiddling around with it."

And then, because Tony's sleepy and still a little off-kilter from the oddly emotional moment they just had, he adds, "I used to invent things, you know?"

"Yeah?" Steve asks. "Like what?"

"Lots of things," Tony tells him. "Clocks, lights, music boxes. All kinds of things."

"What happened to them all?" Steve asks.

"I gave them away," Tony says quietly. He gave away his heart, too, but he can't bring himself to say that. He very suddenly doesn't want to continue this conversation.

"Good night," he says, not unkindly, and rolls back over.

"Good night, Tony," he hears Steve say.

Despite how tired he is, Tony lies awake for a long time before he finally manages to get to sleep. And when he does sleep, he dreams.

When Tony wakes up the next morning with Steve standing over him, shaking his shoulder, he has a terrible moment of disorientation.

"Stepan?" he asks, stupidly, because he'd been dreaming of that night again.

"What?" Steve asks, and Tony shakes himself.

"N-nothing," he manages and sits up. Hay falls off him as he moves, and Tony knows he must have been tossing and turning in his sleep. He always does get so restless when he's dreaming of terrible things. "I was dreaming."

He looks narrowly at Steve, daring him to ask about it, but Steve takes a hint and backs off.

"I think we should leave now," Steve says, and he's right. The light through the cracks in the walls is starting to get stronger and they should get out of here before anyone comes to feed the pigs.

They both gather their things and slip out the door, then navigate back to the train tracks. Their boots leave footprints in the snow to and from the barn, but there's no helping it. Once they're back on the tracks, though, Tony feels safer than he had in the snow bank, and they make it the remaining half mile into town without problems.

Once they're in the town, Tony's back in his element. He's always been a city boy at heart, which is only one of the reasons he never went into the country to work on one of the collective farms, where he would have at least been far away from the city police. The other reason, of course, is that while Tony has no problem with manual labor, he's not about to waste his smarts on being a farmer. Also, he was never going to work for the government; if there's one principle he's stuck to all these years, that's it.

The town's not bad, for a little place. It's got nothing on Petrograd, in either population or architecture, but it'll serve their purposes. Tony meant what he said before about not getting back on a train for a while, so when they get to the station, he very politely inquires after a bus. He's not too picky about the destination, only that it's going west. They've got to get to Germany eventually, and from there they can take a boat to France, but for now, west will do. They're in luck, too, because a bus is set to leave in an hour, which gives Tony plenty of time to sit Steve down on a bench somewhere and go steal them some breakfast.

Steve looks suspicious when Tony comes back with bread and sausage, but he's apparently too hungry to protest. The look on his face when he bites into the meat makes Tony shiver a very tiny bit, thinking of all the things Steve could probably do with that mouth. Up until this point on their trip, Steve's been more of a nuisance than anything else, which is probably why Tony hasn't been very focused on how attractive the guy is. The fact is, though, that Steve is tall and blonde and so devastatingly handsome that Tony's surprised they aren't getting more attention from random passers-by. And after their accidental moment last night, Tony's noticing more and more how much he'd like to have sex with his traveling companion. He's sure Steve will open his mouth eventually and say something so stuck up that Tony'll be forced to reevaluate this attraction, but until then, he's just going to have to suffer through it.

The bus, when it comes, is very nearly empty, with only one passenger, what looks like a teenage boy from his size but who's so bundled up it's hard to tell. Other than Steve and Tony, only one old lady and her granddaughter get on. They've been forced to buy their tickets at the train station, which offends Tony to the very bottom of his forger's soul, but he doesn't know bus tickets as well as he does the ones for the train, and he doesn't want a repeat of what happened yesterday. He has no experience at all in jumping from moving buses, and the odds that they'd get that lucky in landing a second time are slim. Plus, Tony's still sore as fuck from yesterday. His bruises have bruises, he's sure of it.

Steve looks approving when Tony uses his limited stash of money to buy the tickets, and even more approving when they get on the bus and get the whole back to themselves. Tony's pretty pleased about that himself, because it gives him time to unleash part two of his plan.

"So listen," he says, once the bus is on the road and Steve's all settled in. "I wasn't sure exactly how to bring this up, but we can't just take you to see the General in your state."

"You mean my clothes?" Steve asks, plucking at the tear in his coat sleeve. "Because, I think you're probably right, but I can't exactly afford anything nicer."

"Well, those, too," Tony says, surveying Steve's ratty jacket and threadbare pants. His boots look like they're on their last leg, too. "But we can take care of that once we get to Paris. What I meant was, we need to train you up."

"Train me up?" Steve repeats slowly. "Train me as what?"

"The Tsarevich," Tony says, because, obviously. "What else would we train you as, a ballet dancer?"

"What are you talking about?" Steve asks. "Why do I need to be trained as that? We don't even know if I am him."

"The thing is," Tony says carefully. "I'm not positive about this, but I've heard rumors about General Fury. Everyone says he's got this right-hand man, his "Good Eye," I guess he calls him, and no one gets to see the General without going through this guy. So, if we want to see the General, we're going to have to convince someone else that you're actually the Tsarevich first."

"What?" Steve asks, a bit too loudly. The boy in the layers looks in their direction, but Tony just nods at him casually.

"Shh," he tells Steve. "I don't know if you noticed this, but we're not that far out of Soviet territory. We still need to keep this little adventure under wraps, just in case."

"I'm not going to lie and pretend I'm the Tsarevich," Steve hisses.

"You don't know it's a lie," Tony says reasonably. "It could be true. General Fury's the only one who'll be able to tell us for sure, and we can't get to him unless we go through his agent first. Do you want to find out the truth or not?"

"Of course I do," Steve admits reluctantly.

"Well, then," Tony says, happy to have proved his point, "I'm going to have to teach you how to be the Tsarevich. You've got to know everything: how to act, who's who in the royal family, your whole life story, everything."

Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Okay," he says at last. "I'll do it. But if anyone actually asks me if I'm the Tsarevich, I'm not going to lie."

"Fair enough," Tony says. He's pretty sure that question won't come up, anyway, because any fool who's trying to pretend to be the Tsarevich is going to say yes, obviously. Actually, it might even be better if Steve says he's not sure, more realistic that way or something.

"So then, let's get down to business."

As they travel further into Poland, Steve listens very intently as Tony outlines the basic family tree of the Tsar. He's not the best student Tony's ever had (that award definitely goes to Bruce, who was such a quick study it was scary) but Tony's never met someone more determined to get something right. Still, it's a lot of names and dates to remember, so Tony periodically takes breaks from their lessons to give Steve tips on etiquette. Tony was just a kid the last time he was in the royal court, but he remembers enough to be getting on with. Things like posture and poise and manners are things Steve seems to have intrinsically anyway, so really once Tony gets through the hierarchy of who answers to whom, there's not much left to say on that point.

After a couple of hours of quiet instruction, though, Steve puts a hand on Tony's arm and says, "I need a break. If I try to learn anymore right now, I think my head might explode."

"Okay," Tony agrees. He's kind of hoarse, anyway, from all the talking he's been doing and he's really gotta pee. "This bus had better stop soon, too, or I might pee my pants."

"Tony," Steve scolds, and that is the exact moment that Tony knows Steve will do just fine in front of General Fury. Now if they can only get to Pairs in one piece, they'll be golden and Tony, he'll be rich.


	4. Chapter 4

About three hours into Germany, just as it's starting to get dark outside, Steve turns to Tony and says, "There's one thing I don't understand about all this."

"Just one?" Tony asks, stretching and shifting in his seat. It's been hours since the last stop, and they've been reviewing the history of the royal family over and over again ever since they got settled back into their seats. Still, if Steve only has one question, Tony guesses he's doing his job pretty well. They'll be ready for Fury in no time. "What is it?"

"Well," Steve starts slowly. "It's just, I don't remember much about that first year or so I was in the orphanage, but I'm pretty sure that was about the time the Tsar and his family were killed, right?"

"Yeah," Tony agrees, not sure where this is going. His lessons haven't included anything more recent than the start of the Revolution, because there doesn't seem to be a point. He's sure Fury's agent isn't going to be asking about those things. Besides, Tony only knows about the things that happened after that terrible night from reading newspapers whenever he could get his hands on them. He wasn't there for it personally like he had been for the years before that, so he's not sure his second-hand knowledge will really be much help. "And? That's just more proof you could be the Tsarevich." Not that Tony believes that, but it'll help if Steve does.

"Okay," Steve says, pursing his lips thoughtfully, "but what even happened to the royal family? We weren't allowed to talk about it at the orphanage, especially after the Red government took over."

"Ah," Tony says. There's nothing he wants to talk about less, nothing he wants to think about less, but he supposes it's a natural question and there's no way he can refuse to answer the question without making Steve suspicious about Tony's personal involvement in the situation. "Well, it's like this: you know how we talked about the Tsar being away fighting the Great War? While he was gone, the Tsarina was pretty much in charge and General Fury was there to watch her and protect her and the family and stuff, so that's how that guy was involved in the whole thing. Then in, uh, it was February 1917, and it was Women's Day, so the Tsarina had this ball, to show support for all the peasants, you know? Because of all the unrest and riots and stuff. Stupid, if you ask me, but that's what she did. But then, during the ball, rioters stormed the Winter Palace. Most people got out alive, but a few got killed." All these things Tony knows for sure, because he was at that ball that night, the night his parents were killed by rioters. It hurts to say it all so calmly, like he doesn't even care about any of it, except in the abstract, but he manages.

"So then what happened?" Steve prompts. He looks a little bit upset about the whole thing, the general loss of human life, Tony guesses, because he's a decent guy, despite his prissy nature. Still, he wasn't there, doesn't understand what it's like to be told his parents are dead and that his whole world is gone. He doesn't know what it's like to lose his parents, be torn away from his lover, and have to hide in the cold streets for days and days before finally realizing everything he's ever loved is gone.

Tony swallows and looks away. "Um," he clears his throat. "They, uh, they say the general tried to get the Tsarevich out. I don't know what happened with that, or why Fury didn't try to get the whole family out; maybe he thought one person would be easier to hide or something. I don't know. All I know is that the Provisional Government took the royal family to the Alexander Palace 'for their own protection.' Then the Tsar abdicated the throne on behalf of himself and the Tsarevich, and they brought him home to keep with his the rest of his family, or what they said was the rest of the family. I remember hearing rumors that the Tsarevich wasn't with them, but those were just rumors. People were also saying the Tsarina had been having an affair with that monk Schmidt, you know, the creepy one who enchanted the Tsarevich and helped him become less sickly- we talked about him, too, remember?- but I seriously doubt that was true, either. Then in October, the Bolsheviks took over. They moved the family a couple of times, I think, but then in June the next year, they put out official word that the whole family had been killed, including the Tsarevich."

Tony remembers that moment like it was yesterday. He'd been on the streets for over a year by that point and a skilled enough pickpocket to get by, even in those days of the Civil War, when everyone was scared and hungry. He'd been on the street in the early morning, on the lookout for his next target, when he'd seen the headlines. He'd bought the paper fair and square with his hard earned money and his hands shook the entire time he fumbled with the thing, trying to get it open. He found a street corner after that, a quiet place to sit and read the article from top to bottom. And that was the day he realized he would never see the Tsarevich again. Even throughout the entire cold, hard year before, he still always had a glimmer of hope that things might get back to normal eventually, but that, that was the day Tony gave up hope.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, touching his arm. It's really too dark now for Steve to be able to see his face, for which Tony is grateful, but he shakes himself, anyway, reminding himself that all of that happened years ago and doesn't matter now. Right now all that matters is the ten million rubles, and to get those, Tony has to first get through Steve's education, which means sucking it up and answering his questions.

"Fine," Tony says, pulling himself together. "Just thinking."

After a minute, Steve asks, "You really believe in the monarchy, don't you?"

"What makes you say that?" Tony asks, nonplussed.

"Anyone can see this whole thing upsets you," Steve tells him.

"I'm not upset," Tony insists. "And even if I am a tsarist, so what?"

Steve hesitates a moment, then says, "It's just, I've heard that the Tsar wasn't a very good leader."

"You heard that from Communist propaganda, though, didn't you? Don't deny it, I've seen what you like to read."

"That doesn't mean it's not true," Steve insists. "Just because the state says it doesn't mean it's automatically a lie. And if the Tsar was a bad leader, maybe it's not such a bad thing that he's not the Tsar anymore."

"That doesn't mean he deserved to die," Tony says angrily. "What, so we should just go and shoot everyone who might be a bad leader? Because that's what Communists do, Steve, they kill people."

"That's not what I said," Steve says, and Tony can tell he's mad, too, because he can see the flush of his cheeks, even in the dark. "I just think maybe you shouldn't be so blind about how the government is trying to help people. It might not be perfect, but that doesn't mean it's evil, either."

"They killed your family," Tony snaps. And mine, he adds silently.

That brings Steve up short, at least. "Tony," he says, slowly, like he doesn't like what he's about to say. "I don't think they did. I don't think I'm the Tsarevich."

"What?" Tony asks, surprised. "What are you talking about? I thought we decided you were! Are you backing out? Because, Steve, man, I think it might be too late for that. We're already half of the way there." If Steve is backing out, Tony's sure he'll convince him to reconsider somehow, but he's not going to be happy about it.

"Of course I'm not backing out," Steve assures him and Tony sighs a breath of relief. "I'm just saying, it's pretty unlikely. You said yourself that no one even knows if the Tsarevich is alive. What would the odds be of him being alive and also him being me?"

"Look," Tony tells him. "There's only one way to find out for sure, and that's to go see General Fury."

"I guess," Steve says. It's completely dark now, so Tony can't see his face, but he sounds uncertain, maybe a little lost. "I just don't know how to feel about it, about maybe finally knowing what happened to me. I've never had a past before."

"Well, it's not that great," Tony tells him bitterly. "Trust me."

"Did your parents die in the Revolution?" Steve asks suddenly.

"What?" Tony asks, alert again instantly. He can feels his heart, which had just calmed down from Steve's last little revelation, start to speed up again. He's not sure how long he can handle all the anxiety this guy is giving him. Who knew trying to con ten million rubles out of the Tsar's right-hand man would cause so much stress? Also, who knew Tony was so transparent? "Why would you say that?"

"You hate the Communists," Steve says reasonably. He doesn't sound suspicious or upset, but Tony stays wary, just in case. "And me asking about the Revolution upset you, I know it did. Plus, you talk all the time about being on the streets, so I know you're an orphan, too. So either you're a tsarist to the point of obsession and an orphan by coincidence, or your family died in the Revolution, too."

Those are all true things, and denying any of them is going to look suspicious. Still, he can't tell Steve the truth without it looking even more suspicious. So he decides to make something up. "My parents worked in the Winter Palace," he lies. "As servants to the Tsar."

"Wow," Steve says, clearly impressed despite his Communist leanings. "I guess that explains how you know so much about them."

Tony shrugs. "I picked a few things up, here and there. But, still, that was a lifetime ago. I don't even think about it, really." Somehow, that last lie feels like the biggest.

"Do you miss them?" Steve asks softly.

"Sometimes," Tony admits. "But mostly I feel like I never knew them. They were never really around, when I was young." That, at least, is the honest to God truth. They were always away, somewhere or other, and Tony was left in the care of nannies or tutors. He loved them, but in a distant, awed way. When he thinks about them now, he's not sure he even knows how to describe them, apart from little things like the perfume his mother wore and the horse his father preferred.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, and Tony decides right then and there that there's been quite enough emotion for one night.

"Me too," he says and changes the subject. "It's getting pretty late. We'll be at the German port in the morning, so we should try to get some sleep."

"Okay," Steve agrees. "Goodnight, Tony."

"Goodnight, Steve," Tony replies.

And that's the end of it. Or it should be, except that it takes Tony ages and ages to get comfortable. This isn't the worst place he's ever slept, but it's been a while since he's had to sleep sitting up. These seats weren't made for sprawling across, though, and unless he wants to lie on the floor, sitting is his only option. Steve seems equally uncomfortable. Eventually, after almost an hour of both of them not sleeping, they manage to come to an unspoken agreement to prop themselves up against one another for support. It's still not exactly comfortable, what with Steve's elbow digging into Tony's side, but they both at least manage to catch some sleep.

When Tony wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he's wrapped like a limpet around Steve, who's still snoring. Tony scowls and untangles himself. It's not attraction, he tells himself viciously, if it happens while he's asleep. It's just been a while since Tony's touched anyone, that's all. It's nothing personal, nothing at all. He does not have feelings for Steve, unless he counts feelings of annoyance, because those he has in spades.

The second thing Tony notices is that they're nearly at the port. The seagulls in the sky are squawking so loudly that Tony's sure that's what woke him. Either that, or the bumpy road under them. The combination of the two is irritating and Tony's not sure how Steve is even still asleep.

"Wake up, Princess," Tony says and elbows him in the side.

Steve jerks away, and blinks angrily over at Tony. "What did you do that for?" he asks, rubbing his side.

"We're here," Tony says innocently. "We'll have to get off in a few minutes, see if we can catch a boat or something."

"Hmm," Steve says, obviously still annoyed and also sleepy. It's a good look on him, Tony thinks, then curses himself mentally for even thinking it.

"Get your stuff together," Tony tells him and reaches for his own bag. Except, it's not on the seat where he left it. His heart stops and he stands quickly, balancing himself on the seats and checking all the spaces in their little section where his bag may have fallen. It's not anywhere he can see, and he's just about to panic, because that bag's his lifeline, seriously, when he hears someone clear their throat.

"You dropped this," a woman's voice says, and Tony looks up, expecting to see the grandmother or granddaughter that have been riding with them all this way, or maybe one of the young ladies they picked up in the middle of Poland. Instead, it's the person Tony had assumed was a teenage boy, still all bundled up. And she's holding his bag.

"Thanks," Tony says, straightening up and taking it from her.

She nods seriously and heads back up to her spot a few aisles ahead of them. Tony waits until her back is turned, then does a check to make sure everything's in his bag that's supposed to be. It's all there, down to the extra pair of wool socks he's been carrying. His ledger book looks a little rumpled, though, like it's been flipped through and read.

"Huh," Tony says and reaches to pull it out, but just then the bus comes to a stop. He'll check it later, he decides, and packs everything back into the bag.

"Okay," he says to Steve, who's standing, too. "Let's go see if we can find us a boat."

This is it, he thinks. One more leg of their journey and then they'll be in Paris. Then Tony can get rid of Steve once and for all. He'll be glad, he tells himself, when they part ways, and he'll be even more glad to have the money. Just one more day and then he'll never have to see Steve again.

He just wishes the thought made him as happy as he knows it should.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes Tony a few hours to find them a boat that's going to Paris and then another hour after that to talk the captain down to a price they can afford. Boats, like buses, are difficult to forge tickets for, especially in this case, because the captain insists on cash up front. He doesn't seem very happy about Tony paying in rubles, either, but money is money, even to Germans. Or maybe especially to Germans, because their economy has been tanked since the Great War. Tony would feel bad about paying less than the captain wants for the fare, because this guy probably has a wife and kids somewhere depending on this money, but Tony's got a limited amount of money himself right now. As it is, he ends up using nearly all his savings. He decides, as he and Steve are ushered onto the boat, that once he gets those ten million rubles he's going to come back here and find this guy and buy about twenty tickets, just because he can.

Of course, the minute they get on the boat, Tony remembers something he had previously buried deep in the memories of his childhood: he gets seasick. He'd gone on a boating trip on the Black Sea with his parents once, when he was about ten, back before the Great War. Tony had been sick the entire time and his father had been terribly cross about the whole thing. He was even more cross when Tony had nearly fallen overboard trying to see fish or something, hoping to distract himself. His governess had taken him below decks pretty quickly after that and Tony had made a vow never to get back on another boat. The war had started less than a year later, and he was able to keep his vow, but only because he never had the opportunity again to go boating. Not that this is boating, exactly, and this brig they're on is a lot bigger than his family's yacht had been. Still, Tony decides as soon as they get to their room he'd better sit down and stay there.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, once they're in their cabin. It's a tiny room, with just enough room for the single bunk bed that's been squeezed in there.

"Fine," Tony grits out. He sits quickly on the bottom bunk, which is hard and uncomfortable, but at least a seat. "I just don't like boats."

"Oh," Steve says, considering this. "I've never been on one before."

"Yes, you have," Tony reminds him. "The Tsarevich used to go out on yachts with his parents sometimes." He tries desperately not to imagine Steve in the cute little sailor outfit the Tsarevich used to be forced into on those occasions and fails spectacularly.

"Okay," Steve says, rolling his eyes and smiling fondly, for some reason. "But in my real life, you know, the one I can actually remember? In that life, I've never been boating."

"Details," Tony says, waving a hand dismissively. Then, because he wants to see the annoyed face Steve will make, he adds, "But if Fury's man asks, that had better not be the answer I hear come out of your mouth."

"Tony," Steve says, exasperated. "I'm not stupid, okay? I know what I have to say and not say. You don't have to keep reminding me, honest."

"Fine," Tony agrees, because he can tell Steve really is ready. Or, mostly ready. "I guess it's time to initiate phase two of your education, then."

"Phase two?" Steve asks and it might be Tony's imagination, but he sounds a little nervous. "What's that?"

"Dancing," Tony says, and stands.

"Dancing?" Steve asks incredulously. "With who?"

"With me, dummy," Tony says. He shucks off his coat onto the bed, then steps forward and grabs Steve's hand. It's a nice hand, soft and cool. Tony has to force himself to focus on something other than the feel of Steve's skin. He shakes his head to clear it, then has to physically remove Steve's coat from him because Steve is just not cooperating.

"Tony, we can't dance," Steve says sounding a bit desperate. "We're both men."

"And?" Tony asks viciously. It's suddenly a lot easier to remember not to be attracted to Steve once he's reminded that Steve's a jerk and would probably hate him if he knew what Tony was, what he's done. "Look, this is an important lesson, okay? You have to learn to dance and I'm the only person here to teach you. And we'd better get started now, before this boat gets out of the harbor, because as soon as we get onto the ocean, I'm probably going to get sick."

"I don't need to dance," Steve insists. "Why would this even come up at the interview?"

"You'd be surprised," Tony tells him honestly. From what Tony knows about him, Fury is just the sort of man who would ask something like this to prove identity, and Fury's agent is probably the same. "Rich people dance all the time, Steve. It's something you're going to have to learn."

"I can't," Steve insists and Tony's just starting to get genuinely pissed and maybe even a little hurt that Steve doesn't want to dance because it means holding on to Tony when Steve adds in a quiet little voice, "I won't be any good."

"That's what the lessons are for," Tony says, less angry all of the sudden and a bit pleased to see Steve's vulnerable side. "No one will even see you but me. We'll just practice until you're good, then we can go up on the deck and you can impress all the girls with your skills." He feels a little nauseous at the idea of Steve wooing any girls, but tells himself very firmly that it's ridiculous and probably just the seasickness kicking in.

Steve takes a deep, long breath and lets it out slowly. Then he says, "Okay. What do I do?"

"Like this," Tony says, grabbing his hand again and pulling him into a classic waltz starting pose. Well, into the girl's position, anyway, but Tony has to lead first to show him how. He positions Steve's hand on his upper arm, then puts his hand on Steve's back. They're standing close, though not as close as they'd been last night when they were all wrapped up together in their sleep. Still, they're close enough for Tony to feel Steve's breath on his face, to look up into his eyes and get lost there, if he's not careful.

Tony clears his throat. "Okay," he says. "It's a three-count and all we're gonna do is a box step. Easiest move ever, I swear. It goes like this: one, two, three, forward, side, feet together. One, two, three, back, side, feet together." He demonstrates the box step, leading Steve in the steps. It is simple, and Steve picks it up after a few tries. Steve's a quick study and apparently enormously coordinated. From there, they move on to turns, natural and reverse, then put them all together.

"Okay," Tony says after he thinks Steve's got the hang of it. "Now you lead."

"Right," Steve says shakily. They switch hand positions, so Steve's hand is on Tony's back, warm and steady.

Then Steve starts the dance again, leading this time, and Tony just lets himself get lost in it. It's been such a long time since he's danced. The last time had been the night his life fell apart, hidden away in an empty corridor with the Tsarevich, right before they'd taken each other's pants off. That was a lifetime ago, though, and Tony himself had been a different person. That Tony, the fifteen year old aristocrat, he'd been so in love with the Tsarevich, and even after he became Tony the street kid, he'd clung to that love, because it was the only thing he had left. Now, though, Tony's not an aristocrat or a street kid; he's a businessman in all the senses of the word. This new Tony, the one he is now, he's been clinging to the memory of a dead boy for years. But the Tsarevich is gone, and Tony knows it, and he thinks that maybe finally, he might be able to move on. There are other people out there, and none of them will ever be his first love, but maybe one of them can be his second. Someone like Steve, maybe, just for example.

Then Steve accidently steps on Tony's toes and Tony comes back to himself with a curse. He remembers, suddenly, that Steve drives him absolutely crazy. It's in a good way, sometimes, but even if Tony wanted it to work out with Steve, it never would, because Tony's been lying to Steve, is using him to get rich. And Steve, he's a good man, never been selfish a day in his life. He'd never forgive Tony, if he knew.

"Sorry," Steve says, stepping back at once. "The boat rocked."

"Whatever," Tony says, wiggling his toes around in his shoe. "Nothing's broken, so it's fine. I need a drink, anyway."

They've been dancing for a while now, at least two hours, and even though Tony's lost track of time, he's sure they have to be out of the harbor and into the ocean by now. The funny thing, or maybe it's more disturbing, is that Tony's been too distracted by dancing of all things to get seasick. Or maybe he's grown out of it. He doesn't know if that even happens, but it has been years and years since he's been on a boat, so it's a possibility.

"Me, too," Steve says. "Do we have anything to drink?"

"We sure do," Tony says, grinning at him. He turns and rummages around in his bag, pulling out the bread and bottled beer he'd stolen from street vendors before they'd left the port. Steve had been too distracted at the time looking at seagulls to notice Tony's sticky fingers, but he frowns now disapprovingly.

"You stole those, didn't you?" he asks accusingly.

"Yeah," Tony says like it's obvious, because it is and he doesn't see what Steve's problem is. It's not like Tony steals for fun. He feels bad about it, okay, but he's been poor long enough to know that a little stealing here and there keeps a person alive. It's not like he'd do it if he could afford to pay for things. When he gets rich, he'll never have to steal again. "Spare me the lecture, okay? It's either this or nothing, so take the damn bottle."

Steve does, reluctantly. They eat and drink in silence, the moment they had while dancing completely forgotten, for which Tony is grateful.

"Wanna go up on deck?" Tony asks at last, tired of the silence and the boring, boring walls of the cabin. "Maybe we'll see some fish or something."

"Sure," Steve agrees, standing and brushing crumbs off his lap.

The sun is just starting to set when they make their way out into the fresh air. It's a pretty picture, Tony'll admit, and nothing like they ever get in Petrograd. And he doesn't even feel the need to vomit over the side of the boat, which is absolutely fantastic.

"Wow," Steve says, walking over to the rail and looking over it toward the sunset. "It's beautiful. I wish I could paint it."

"You paint?" Tony asks in surprise, leaning casually against the railing, too. "Doesn't seem like a very orphan-y thing to do."

Steve shrugs. "I used to," he says, "a bit. I used to make the paint myself from things I could find easily, like water and charcoal, you know? But I could never make colors as beautiful as these ones."

"Huh," Tony says, thinking about how much effort that must have taken. That's Steve for you, though, extremely motivated and dedicated. "The most accomplished thing I ever achieved while I was an orphan was picking pockets." He's not sure why he says it, except that it's the truth and also because he wants to see Steve's face twist up in a scowl. He can't help it; there's just something in him that loves pushing Steve's buttons.

"Tony," Steve says, turning to him with an expression that says he's got Tony's number. "Don't wind me up. We're having a nice evening. Can't you just let it happen?"

"Well," Tony says, pretending to consider. "I mean, I guess. If you insist."

"I do," Steve says firmly, but he smiles right at Tony when he says it and steps a bit closer so their shoulders are nearly brushing as they watch the sunset.

They stand there together, watching the reds and golds play over the water. Down the deck aways, Tony can see a group of wealthy-looking folks, several men in suits and one dolled-up lady with her hair covered in a headscarf. She looks vaguely familiar, but Tony figures he must have just seen her while they were in the port and puts it out of his mind. He's got more important things to worry about, anyway, like how if they were alone on the deck, he might reach out and touch Steve's hand again. He doesn't dare, not with other people so close, but he wants to, and that's a scary thought in and of itself. Instead, he just leans in a little bit toward Steve, lets their shoulders bump together for a minute or two. They stand together like that, watching until the sun goes down, with their arms barely touching and Steve throwing glances Tony's way whenever he thinks Tony isn't paying attention.

Finally, after the sun's sunk beneath the water and it's getting too dark to see, Steve suggests they return to their cabin. Tony agrees, and they walk down the steps in companionable silence. Once they get into the room again, Tony thinks it's going to get weird, but it doesn't.

"I'll take the top bunk," Steve offers and Tony says, "Sure." He doesn't mind. Even if he'd prefer to have Steve in the bottom bunk with him, it's warm enough in the cabin that there's no need to share body heat or anything. Not that Tony does want to share a bed, really, he doesn't. He just thinks it would be nice if that was an option, is all.

"Goodnight," Steve says.

"Yeah," Tony breathes. "Goodnight."

There's a moment where they both just stare at each other and Tony's convinced Steve's going to say something else. He doesn't though, and Tony can't think of anything to say, either, so he just climbs onto the bottom bunk and lies down. Steve hoists himself onto the top bunk and then there's just the roll of the waves under them, the sound of the ocean and Steve's breathing, and somehow, it all lulls Tony to sleep quicker than blinking.

Tony wakes, awfully refreshed for someone who slept on a hard bunk all night, to the sound of a ship's horn sounding. He yawns and sits up, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the top bunk as he goes.

"Steve?" he asks, standing up and turning to look at the top bunk. Steve's still up there, fast asleep, and it's a relief to know he hasn't gone anywhere, though Tony's not sure when he developed these protective impulses for the guy. It's frankly a little weird, and Tony distracts himself by shaking Steve awake. "Hey," he says, "I think we're here."

Steve's eyes blink open slowly and he looks up with confusion. "Huh?"

"I heard a horn," Tony explains. "I think we're near port."

"Oh," Steve says, sitting up, too. Tony backs off, goes to get his coat and his bag together. He grabs Steve's stuff, too, his million coats and scarves, even though they won't need them in France. Waste not, want not, or whatever and maybe Tony'll be able to take a few with him whenever he goes wherever he's going after this little adventure is over. When he turns back around, Steve's standing on the floor again, looking alert and ready for anything. Tony hands over his stuff and then crosses to the cabin door.

"Come on," he says and leads the way up the stairs onto the deck. Sure enough, they're in port already, very nearly docked.

"Huh," Steve says, leaning over the railing and looking at the town. "This is Paris? I thought there was supposed to be a tower thingy."

"The Eiffel Tower, Steve," Tony says, exasperated but also somehow fond. "It's called the Eiffel Tower. It's the tallest building in the world. For now, anyway; I hear they're building something bigger in New York. And no, this isn't Paris. This is Rouen. Ocean liners can't go that far into the Seine, so we're going to have to get a ferry from here."

"Oh," Steve says, "okay."

They disembark after the rich group, and Tony tips his hat to the captain. His proverbial hat, that is; he hasn't had an actual hat since they jumped from the train in Poland. After they're back on solid ground, Tony feels a bit wobbly, but powers through it and it goes away after a few minutes of walking. Then, Tony sets out looking for a ferry. There are signs here and there, all in French, of course, but the Tsar had been a great lover of languages and his court aimed to please him, so Tony knows enough of it to be getting on with.

"Well," he says as he pays the ferryman, "that was the last of my money. Once we get to France we're going to have to hoof it."

"That's fine," Steve says quickly. He blushes a bit, then adds, "And thank you. For all of this. I never would have made it here without your help."

"Don't jinx it," Tony says, waving the thanks off. He can't accept Steve's gratitude when he's planning on getting rich out of the deal and has been lying all this time about it. He waves off his guilt, too and just smiles at Steve. "We're not in Paris yet. Anything could still go wrong."

He's right, of course, and something does go wrong, but not until it's much, much too late to do anything but swim for it.


	6. Chapter 6

Maybe it's because of its small size, but the ferry is much rougher than the ship had been, and it's not too long before Tony finds himself leaning over the edge of the waist-high railing on the deck, staring down at the choppy water and trying not to puke.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, concerned. He puts a hand on Tony's shoulder and Tony can feel the warmth spreading through his body from the spot where they're touching.

"Fine," Tony insists. "I told you I don't like boats."

"Is there anything I can do?" Steve asks and he sounds like he genuinely means it.

It's funny, Tony thinks, how they barely even annoy each other anymore. Except on purpose, of course, because Tony could never resist winding people up. "Nah," he says, straightening up with some effort. "I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" Steve asks, bringing his hand up from Tony's shoulder like he wants to touch Tony's face before he stops himself and pulls his hand back to hang at his side. "You look pretty pale. Maybe we should sit down."

"Good idea," Tony agrees. They've pretty much got a spot to themselves by the railing, so they both sink down to the deck and lean against the railing for support. It feels better to be sitting, but his stomach is still rolling and he definitely needs something to distract himself with. He goes through his mental list of things he could do to entertain himself, but none of them hold up. He doesn't have paper or supplies to forge anything, and even if he did, it would probably be a bad idea, especially in case they get searched at any point by the French police. They could go over the history of the monarchy again, that would certainly take some time, but by this point it seems both overkill and slightly reckless to keep talking about it. Fury could have spies anywhere, posing as perfectly ordinary citizens, all just waiting for Tony to slip up. Of course, when he thinks about it like that, it sounds paranoid, so he puts it out of his head.

"Got any cards?" he asks Steve a little desperately.

Steve just gives him a look. "Where would I have gotten cards from?" he asks, a little disbelieving. "We've been on this crazy adventure for days, now. I didn't have time to stop at a store or anything."

"Right," Tony says. He could come up with something smart to say to that, something witty, but he's just not feeling up to it. Instead, he looks around at the other people on the ferry, sizing them up, trying to see if maybe one of them is the type of person who would have a spare set of cards in their pockets. He sees a rather well-dressed looking man across the deck from them, staring morosely into his own lap, and thinks that one might be a winner. "What about him," he says, nodding at the guy. "He probably has some."

"Not that he'd be willing to share, I bet," Steve counters. "He's all dressed up, going somewhere important. If he's got any cards, he's probably saving them for his audience with the bishop while they discuss how to start the next war."

Tony turns to look at the man beside him, somewhat shocked. It's not like Steve to gossip, as far as Tony can tell. Steve just doesn't seem like the type of guy who would make up stories about people that he knows aren't true. Still, it's not going farther than the two of them, and it's all in good fun, so maybe that soothes Steve's moral compass enough to tell scurrilous lies about the man they're watching. Or maybe, Tony thinks with a smile, Steve just wants to distract him from being sick that badly.

"What about that girl?" Tony asks, indicating a young lady a few feet away from the man. She's dressed in plain clothes, but her hair and make-up are all done up. He holds his breath, waiting to see if Steve will do it again.

"A farm girl," Steve says at once, flashing Tony a goofy smile. "She's never been to the city before, but she's hoping to find a husband in Paris so she doesn't have to marry the bully from down the lane."

"Brilliant," Tony says, totally sidetracked now from his seasickness.

"Your turn," Steve says, apparently enjoying himself, too. "What about that couple over there? What's their story?"

"Hmm," Tony says, considering. The couple in question is obviously newly married, because they keep sneaking loving glances at one another while they think the other isn't looking and the woman keeps fiddling with her ring finger. "They eloped," he says at last. "Their parents didn't approve of their marriage, so they ran away together. Now they're going to Paris for their honeymoon and aren't planning on going back home until they've got a baby on the way."

Steve laughs a little and Tony revels in the sound of it. It's good, he thinks, what they have between them. They'll never be able to get married like the couple in front of them, not for so very many reasons, but what they have now, it's a good thing. It won't last, not with what Tony's planning, but he may as well enjoy it while it's still happening.

They go on like that, spending the next few hours making up stories about each of the passengers scattered around the deck, telling about their histories and their future plans. There's the elderly widow woman who's taking her bookish daughter to the city to meet a suitable husband. There's the banker returning home after a business trip abroad. There's the school boy barely out of short pants, traveling the world with his wealthy grandfather.

"What about her?" Steve asks after a while, indicating a woman standing near the captain of the ferry. She's talking to the man, and her high clear laugh sounds out over the general noise of the water and the other passengers.

Hearing that laugh, Tony freezes, heart starting to pound. He knows that voice, if only he could think of where he's heard it before. All he knows is that it makes him uneasy. He turns his head slowly to look at the woman in question. She's plainly-dressed, but her hat is in her hands, revealing smooth pale skin and fiery red hair. She looks so familiar, but Tony for the life of him can't think where he's seen her before.

Then the woman turns their way, looking directly at them, and Tony realizes with an abrupt jolt of his heart that he knows exactly where she's from. "She was on the train," he tells Steve softly.

Steve, not realizing anything's wrong, just nods, slowly. "What train?" he prompts. "A train here in France? She looks more Russian than French to me, but if you think she's French, it's your call."

"No," Tony says urgently, tearing his eyes away from the woman to look at Steve. "She was on our train. The one we jumped off of. She was the conductor. I'm sure of it."

"What?" Steve hisses quietly. "How is that possible?"

"I don't know," Tony says. "But it's not a coincidence. I think- I think she might have been on the ship, too, and maybe the bus." Even as he says it, he knows it's true. He hadn't seen the woman's face on the bus, had thought the bundled-up passenger had been a teenage boy for the majority of the trip, but he remembers her voice, the same voice that was laughing just now with the captain. He hadn't recognized her on the boat as the conductor, but he's sure of it now, now that he's seen her face again, is staring right at it.

"Is she following us?" Steve asks quickly. He looks worried, face all drawn up into an anxious scowl. "What could she want?"

"Maybe she's with the Red government," Tony says, almost unwillingly. He'd thought they were safe, once they got out of range of the Union, but he should have known; nothing is ever out of the reach of the Red government. "She must know what we're doing," he decides. "She's been following us this whole time, waiting to make her move until she had proof or something. I don't know. All I know is, we have to get out of here."

He stands and Steve does the same, but he looks about unhappily.

"Where are we going to go?" he asks. "We're still moving."

"We're going to have to swim," Tony says. He's not looking forward to jumping into that cold water, but it beats the alternative, especially since the redheaded woman is watching them steadily now, taking in their movements with her sharp calculating eyes.

"The water will be freezing," Steve says. "And I can't swim."

"Swimming's easy," Tony tells him. "Just kick your feet and move your arms."

"This is a bad idea," Steve says, but Tony can tell he sees the urgency of getting off the ferry, too.

"Steve," Tony says, putting a hand on Steve's arm. "I won't let you drown. Trust me."

"I do," Steve says, and the words warm Tony all the way through. He just hopes the warmth sticks around once he's in the icy water.

"Okay," Tony says, pulling Steve to the railing. He has to let go of Steve's arm while they're both scrambling up the railing, but once they're at the top, poised to jump, he grabs the man's hand in his. "On the count of three."

"Oi," the captain yells in French, "What are you two doing? Get down!"

"One, two…" Tony glances back, sees the woman coming toward them, hand diving into her coat pocket and pulling out a pistol.

"Three," Steve says and yanks Tony forward and off the boat.

The water rushes up to meet them, and the force of their jump carries them both under. The water is freezing, like a thousand needles jabbing into his skin. He doesn't let go of Steve's hand, though, just kicks his feet and tries to claw his way back up to the surface with his free hand. It's not easy work, especially with the way Steve is weighing him down, but Tony doesn't let go. He'll never let go, not if he can help it.

At last, after an eternity under the freezing water, Tony manages to force his way back to the surface. He draws in great, startled gasps of air and it burns his lungs on the way in, probably from the cold. Steve's beside him, choking and gasping, too, and Tony thinks it would probably help them both stay afloat if they let go of each other's hands, but he can't make himself do it.

"Kick your feet," he manages to shout over the water in his ears and on his face.

Steve does, but he's not very good at it. He kicks, though, and Tony does, too, and together, they manage to make their slow, painful, freezing way over to the bank of the river. The ferry, Tony is pleased to note once they drag themselves up onto land, hasn't stopped. It's far enough away now that Tony can barely see the woman at the railing, still watching them from a distance. Her gun is clearly in her hands, and Tony wonders why she didn't use it. Maybe the Reds want them alive, he thinks, but puts it out of his mind as something irrelevant for the time being.

The air is freezing, though not as cold as the water was. Still, Tony finds himself shivering almost at once, teeth chattering. This may be France, but it's still winter and that means it's not a good idea to wander around soaked to the skin.

"We need to get out of these clothes," Steve says, clearly thinking the same thing. "There's a clothesline over there at that house."

He's right and Tony feels so very proud of him for not only pointing out the problem and finding a solution within seconds, but also being willing to take someone's clothes right off the line. Steve would have made a good street kid, Tony knows that now. It took some doing, but finally he's come around to it. If Tony ever ends up on the streets again, Steve is definitely a guy he wants at his back.

Shivering, they stumble their way over to the house where Steve saw the clothesline. It's a fancy house, and Tony isn't surprised. Riverside property values are probably through the roof, especially in a country like this one, where the rivers aren't frozen solid most of the year. The clothes on the line are correspondingly well-made and Tony thinks luck might be with them, after all. Their own clothes, the ones that are now soaked, would have never stood up under the inspection of Fury's agent. These clothes they're stealing, though, they're nice enough to seem respectable.

When they're both relatively dry, they start off again, walking along the river in the direction the ferry had gone. They're only a few miles out of Paris, by Tony's reckoning, so it should only take them about an hour to walk there. Of course, once they get into the city, finding the right house is going to be another matter entirely. Tony'll have to try to make contact with the local underground, see what's what. They'll get there, though, one way or another, Tony'll make sure of it. After all, they've come this far.


	7. Chapter 7

The right house, when they finally find it in the early evening, is a pristine townhouse with an immaculately kept garden in the front. Nothing about it screams of wealth or royalty, which is only slightly disappointing.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks Steve as they're standing on the front step. "You can back out now and I won't hold it against you." He's surprised to find it's the truth. They're in Paris and the rubles are so close he can almost feel them in his hands, but he's still having second thoughts, for some reason. Because, the thing is, they are in Paris, he and Steve. They're away from the Reds and they're away from all the things that either of them have ever known. It's the perfect place to start over. They could just run away together, the two of them, forget about the past and forget about the money. Steve could just stay his forever and he'd never have to find out the truth about what Tony was planning.

Steve nods, though, looking grim but certain. "I'm sure," he says.

Tony sighs and rings the bell. The butler who answers the door looks kind of pissed off, but Tony just nods and says very firmly in French, "I've got a message for Mr. Coulson, if you please."

"One moment, please," The butler says and leaves them on the doorstep while he apparently goes to consult with his master.

The man who answers the door the second time looks exactly like the type of man who would live in this house, plain and ordinary, which isn't quite what Tony pictured when he thought about Fury's right-hand man, but he supposes it makes sense. Throws people off their guard, or whatever.

"Can I help you?" he asks tersely.

"Actually," Tony says, giving the man his best smile, the one he uses to charm unsuspecting clients and marks alike. "I think it's me that can help you. I've got something your boss wants."

Coulson looks from Tony to Steve and back again, then steps back for them to enter the house.

"Come in," he allows, and he says it in Russian, which is honestly a little bit scary. This man is nothing if not quick on the uptake, though Tony supposes it does help that Steve is the spitting image of the Tsarevich and any fool can see it.

The inside of the house is just as ordinary as the outside. Tony's not sure what he was expecting, large photos of the Tsar maybe or piles and piles of rubles, but what he finds instead is a well-kept hall that opens into four rooms, two on each side, and a staircase that doubtless leads to the second level. It's a nice house, especially if only this man lives here, but it's just not exactly what Tony was imagining when he thought about this man, this agent. If Tony hadn't double-checked his sources and if this man hadn't already let them in on the basis of a cryptic message, Tony might think they had the wrong place.

"You have a lovely house," Steve says as the man leads them off the hall and into a sitting room. He sounds genuine, of course, because he's Steve and he's a polite fucker. Coulson must hear the sincerity in his voice, because he shoots Steve a startled look, then gives him a very small smile.

"Barton," Coulson says loudly, waving for them to have a seat on the immaculately upholstered settee.

They sit and Tony's just about to open his mouth to ask what the fuck "Barton" is when the butler reappears with tea and biscuits.

"Anything else, sir?" Barton asks, and Tony's almost sure he isn't imagining the slight cheekiness in the tone of his voice, the playfulness there.

"That will be all," Coulson dismisses, not rising to the bait of his disrespectful butler, and Barton leaves the room again.

"How do you take your tea?" he asks, pouring each of them a cup.

Tony blinks, tries to think back to the last time he's been in a setting like this, one where he was able to pick and choose exactly what he wanted in his tea instead of what he could afford. It's not that he hasn't drunk tea in the last ten years, but it's certainly been that long since he's been at a fancy-pants tea party like this. "Just sugar," he says at last, because it's been quite a while since he's tasted real honest-to-God sugar. He glances over at Steve, who looks just as lost, and adds, "For both of us."

Coulson obliges, passing them their steaming cups and taking a sip of his own.

"Now, then," he says, setting his cup down. "Down to business. What, exactly, is it that you think my boss will be interested in?"  
He knows, Tony can tell, but he wants to hear them say it, so Tony straightens his shoulders and draws up every reserve of posh superiority he's ever had in him and says, "You may tell General Fury that I have located his lost charge, the Tsarevich Stepan Josipav."

"Indeed," Coulson says drily. He looks at Steve and says, "I assume that would be you."  
Steve nods stiffly and Tony knows that after all this time, after all they've been through to get here, it still pains him to not tell Coulson the whole truth about this.

"Well," Coulson concedes. "You do look like him. More than any of the other potentials I've seen, at the very least. Tell me, where were you born?"

"In Peterhof," Steve answers at once. Tony feels a rush of relief that he hasn't gotten stage fright or anything. So far, so good.

"And how did you take your tea as a child?"

"I didn't like tea," Steve says. "Just hot water and lemon."

"Yet you drink tea, now," Coulson points out.

Steve just shrugs shyly. "I've come to like it, since then."

Good save, Tony thinks as Coulson nods thoughtfully and brings out the next question.

The question and answer session takes more than an hour, during which time Steve answers correctly inquiries about every aspect of his life before the Revolution and his extended family, down to the very last insignificant cousin. Tony holds his breath for the first ten minutes or so, but eventually the tedium of the whole thing overcomes his nerves and he lets his mind wander. He's only brought back to himself when Coulson says, "Last question. You may find this impertinent, but where have you been for the last ten years?"

Oh, shit, Tony thinks. He and Steve hadn't prepared an answer for this. They should have, obviously, but he'd been so worried about Steve's resolution not to lie directly to Coulson that anything like this that brushes on the truth of Steve's upbringing seemed like it would be a touchy subject.

"In an orphanage," Steve says at once. "Outside of Petrograd. I knew I needed to come to Paris, but was unable to do so until circumstances changed a week ago."

Not technically a lie, either. Tony holds his breath, but Coulson just nods and accepts it as a valid answer.

"Well," Coulson says, setting down his now cold tea. "That seems to be all the questions I have. I will consult with the General and set up a meeting with him on your behalf."

"So, that's it?" Tony asks before he can stop himself. "We passed the test or whatever?"

"So it seems," Coulson says cryptically. He stands and looks them over speculatively, then adds, "I assume you need somewhere to stay until I can get you in to meet with the General. I have a guest room you may use, if you don't mind sharing."

"That would be great," Steve says at once, standing, too. Tony follows suit, hardly daring to believe they actually did it. They've fooled Fury's agent. Now if only they can fool Fury, too, everything will be just perfect. They'll have accomplished their goal, and Steve will have all the things he deserves and never had. And the rubles, of course. Tony will have his rubles.

"Barton," Coulson calls, and the butler appears. "Take these two up to the spare room. They'll be staying with us for the night."

The butler nods and motions for Steve and Tony to follow him. He takes them up the stairs and to the last room on the left. "Dinner will be in an hour," he tells them as he opens the door. "I'm afraid Mr. Coulson will be unable to attend, but I'll serve you in the formal dining room downstairs. The bathroom is on this floor, first door on the right next to the stairs. I'll leave you two to get refreshed."

He says all this very fast and completely monotone, like he's either incredibly bored or making fun of them. Or possibly both. He's apparently not a very good butler, which does beg the question of why someone with as much obvious wealth and power as Coulson keeps him on. He must have other talents, ones that haven't been revealed yet. The thought makes Tony shudder and try valiantly not to imagine what Coulson does with his butler when there are no guests in the house.

Then Barton's gone, leaving Steve and Tony alone in the guest room. Tony surveys it with a critical eye, taking in the drab curtains and the single ugly painting on the wall. It's all very nice quality, of course, but the coloring leaves something to be desired. Tony thought Paris was supposed to be a city of color, but apparently no one told Coulson that before he decorated his house.

"Do you think it's odd that they put us in here together?" Steve asks, indicating the single bed in the middle of the room.

"Nah," Tony says, even though he kind of does. "Probably just want to not have to clean more rooms than necessary or something after we leave." He wants to say that they're probably also hoping to spy on them while they're alone, see if they reveal anything secret, but that level of paranoia seems a little excessive, even for Tony.

"Bet the bathroom's nice, though," he says, changing the subject.

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "The orphanage didn't have indoor plumbing. The new one they're building is supposed to, though."

Most of the places Tony's stayed over the years didn't have indoor bathrooms, either, and in those places that did, he'd had to share with everyone on the floor. He remembers having quite a nice bathroom as a child, with oriental rugs and lavish marble countertops. That was years ago, though, and honestly, of all the things he really misses about those days, nice bathrooms aren't exactly at the top of the list.

They clean themselves up in the bathroom, which is admittedly quite nice, and straighten their clothes out as best they can. These new clothes are a drastic improvement over the ones they'd been wearing, but after the walk into the city and the slight scuffle Tony had while they were trying to get Coulson's address, they're both starting to look kind of rough, especially with the Tony's cut from the train jumping incident just starting to heal and Steve's black eye beginning to turn yellow. Tony would suggest they get new clothes before meeting with Fury, but he's spent the last of his money and anything he might use to barter with was left in his bag on the ferry. He feels slight pang of loss, thinking about all the things in that bag and his ledger especially, but then puts it out of his mind. There's nothing he can do about it, after all, so he might as well focus on the things he still has. Like Steve, for example.

Eventually, they head downstairs and find the formal dining room, which is admittedly quite nice, though equally as colorless as the rest of the house. It's only after Tony sits down at the table that he realizes how tired he is, after days and days of nonstop traveling and adventure. He barely even notices what he's eating, just mechanically raises his fork from his plate to his mouth and back again. Judging by the look on Steve's face, he's thinking longingly about the bed upstairs, too.

After they've both eaten their fill and Steve's thanked Barton for everything, they climb the stairs to their room. The bed is, in fact, very soft and welcoming. Tony strips down to his shorts and collapses onto it at once. He's too tired to even really notice as Steve gets mostly undressed, too, and lies down on the other side of the mattress. The bed is large enough that they're barely touching as they lie together.

Then Steve says, "Tony," in a hesitant tone of voice that makes Tony come awake at once. He thinks he knows what's coming, but he's not sure what he's going to do about it. One the one hand, he's pretty much accepted that he wants Steve, maybe for more than sex. They've known each other less than a week, but boy, it's been a hell of a couple days. Tony knows more about Steve, more about his feelings and inner self than maybe anyone he's met in years. For so long, Tony's love for the Tsarevich has been standing between him and other people, but it was Steve that made him see that he could love the Tsarevich and still let him go. He thinks, if he had a little more time, he could really fall in love with Steve. He's halfway there, already.

But more time is something they don't have. Steve wants him now, maybe, but how long will it be before he finds out the truth, finds out what Tony's been keeping from him all this time, all about the rubles and the con. Steve still thinks Tony's doing this out of the goodness of his heart, after all. When he finds out the truth, he'll never forgive Tony. Steve's a good person, and he just doesn't stand for the kind of thing Tony is doing. All that on top of the fact that Tony's going to have to get out of Paris fast to escape Fury's wrath at being tricked means that there's no future here, none at all.

Tonight, though, Tony can have that and he decides he's going to take it for all it's worth.

"Steve," he says and rolls to face him. Steve's eyes are huge and wide, looking right at Tony, and he reaches out, touching Tony's cheek with his knuckles. Tony turns his head, letting his lips brush over Steve's fingers. Steve lets it happen and that's a signal if Tony's ever seen one.

"Come here," he says, grabbing Steve's arms and tugging until Steve gets with the program and rolls close enough that their faces are mere inches apart. "I'm gonna kiss you now," Tony tells him, just in case it's not clear. Steve doesn't make any protests or try to back away, so Tony goes for it. He's soft at first, just brushing his lips lightly against Steve's, then deepening the kiss when Steve doesn't pull back. It's hot and wet and messy and it's been so long since Tony's done this, but he remembers how it goes, remembers the slick slide of lips and tongues. Steve gives as good as he gets, hand on the back of Tony's head, fingers threaded in his hair.

Tony decides that if he's going to do this, he's going all the way and slides his hand down Steve's side, admiring the softness of his skin and the firmness of the muscles under it. He's never seen Steve without a shirt before, not even when they were changing by the river earlier while he was too preoccupied with keeping himself from freezing to death, so he takes the opportunity now to touch every bit of his chest he can reach. Steve's gasps against Tony's mouth when Tony touches his nipples, and Tony lets himself pause and play for a few minutes, pinching and rubbing until Steve's hips are bucking forward against Tony's.

That, at least, distracts Tony sufficiently. They're still lying on their sides facing one another and Tony thinks they'd get better leverage in a different position, so he breaks the kiss and pushes Steve to lie on his back. He straddles Steve's hips in one smooth movement. It's so, so easy from there to just grind his hips down into Steve's, let himself fall back into a hot, breathless kiss. It's good, better than Tony would have thought. It seems a little rushed, a little crude, just rubbing against each other like this. They could do more and the endless possibilities make Tony's head spin. They're already pushing their luck, though, doing this in Coulson's house, and besides, Tony's too close to coming to manage anything more complicated. Already he can feel the heat licking in the pit of his stomach. He lets himself get lost in the rough slide of Steve's hips, the heat of his mouth and isn't surprised when he comes mere minutes later. He can feel Steve shuddering beneath him, coming too, even as the white overtakes his vision.

"Well," he says, long minutes later. He's still collapsed on top of Steve, but Steve doesn't seem to mind, petting Tony's hair absently, looking sated.

"Yeah," Steve says, and the princess has the balls to look embarrassed, even after they just got each other off. "That was nice."

"I can do better," Tony tells him, grinning sleepily. He can, too, and if they had more time together, he'd totally prove it. He's pretty tired again, though, and can feel his eyes drifting shut. "Goodnight," he manages, then lets his eyes fall closed.

"Goodnight, Tony," he hears and feels Steve press a kiss to his forehead before he's asleep.

A few hours later, Tony blinks awake, realizing he's got to pee. He doesn't bother getting dressed, figuring it's probably late enough that he can make it down the hall to the bathroom and back without anyone seeing him in just his skivvies. He's right, too; the hallway is deserted. When he gets back into the room, he just stands in the door for a minute, watching Steve in the city lights coming in through the window. It's a nice sight: Steve's beautiful and Tony would think so even if he wasn't head over heels for the guy.

He's so preoccupied looking at Steve that he accidently trips over a boot on his way back over to the bed. "Oof," he says, barely catching himself with his hands and not his face. He sits down hard on the floor, feeling his pulse racing from the near miss. He's about to hoist himself back up to his feet and forget this whole embarrassing incident ever happened when something shiny catches his eye in the pile of Steve's clothes. He grabs it.

"My God," he says, holding the trinket up to the light. He recognizes it, though it's been ten years since he's seen it. It's a locket. It'sthe locket. The last time he saw it, it was in the hands of the Tsarevich. Steve has it now, though. There's only one explanation that makes any sense. Steve… Steve is the Tsarevich. And Tony, he's just fucked.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony can't help but stare at Steve as they get dressed the next morning to go down to breakfast. It's not like anything about the man has changed, exactly. He's still tall, blonde and gorgeous. He's still Steve. It's just, he's more now, too. He's the Tsarevich, he's the love of Tony's life. And sure, he doesn't remember any of that, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Tony's thought for so long how uncanny it was that Steve looked exactly like the boy he'd lost, but he'd convinced himself years ago that the Tsarevich was dead and gone. It wasn't possible, he'd thought. Except, apparently it is. It's funny, too, that the exact week Tony decides to let go of the Tsarevich's memory, the boy comes back to him. It would be tragic, this conflict of interests, except that since Tony gave up the Tsarevich so he could fall in love with Steve, he supposes there's no conflict after all. Still, this whole thing is confusing as fuck and Tony's feeling emotions now he's having a hard time dealing with.

"Nice locket," he can't help saying when Steve puts the thing on. "Where'd you get it?" He's not sure what he's hoping for here. Maybe he wants Steve to admit it was stolen or something, provide an explanation besides him being the Tsarevich and not remembering.

"Thanks," Steve says, smiling fondly at the thing as he tucks it under his shirt. "I've had it for as long as I can remember. The kids at the orphanage used to give me crap about it, but I've always thought that there was something special about it. You know, something secret that I could never figure out."

He's right, as a matter of fact. The locket isn't obvious about its secret, but if one has the right motivation and deft fingers, it opens up and begins to play a lullaby. Tony'd worked on it for months and the Tsarevich had been absolutely enchanted when Tony'd given it to him, impressed and awed by its small gears and magical sound. But of course, Steve wouldn't remember any of that.

Tony contents himself with just saying, "Huh," and turning away. If he lets this conversation go any further he's probably going to accidentally spill the whole story and then he'll be in trouble. But on the other hand, now that he thinks about it, Steve being the actual Tsarevich makes this whole con way less terrible. It's barely a con at all. In fact, it's rapidly becoming a good deed, just like he told Steve. Sure, there are the rubles to consider, but good deeds deserve rewards, too, right? And now that there's no con, there's no reason not to tell Steve.

"Steve," he says carefully, trying to figure out how best to word this whole thing. "I, uh-"

He stops, suddenly unsure again. Because, while the con is no longer a con, that doesn't mean Tony can figure out a way to explain that to Steve without telling him everything, Tony's whole past and their relationship in it. And if he does that, Steve's probably going to want to start it up again. After all, why not? Except, Tony could tell him why not and it's all to do with secrecy. Their relationship last time had to be kept an absolute secret and there's no reason to think it would be any different this time, especially with Fury watching Steve like a hawk. And for all that that kind of relationship may have been fine back then, Tony's not sure he's okay with it now, not when he's been a free man all these years. He wants Steve, no doubt, is maybe a bit in love with him, but he's not sure he still wants a relationship with a man who has to take up the title of Tsarevich. No, Tony realizes. It's better not to say anything now, just play it by ear and see what happens. Maybe there's some way it can all work out, but he's not going to get sucked back into that situation again, not now that he has a choice, no matter how much he wants Steve. If only there was a way for them to just blow this whole thing off, forget the rubles and forget the title and run away together. But, well, Steve's already made up his mind to go through with this, so that's what they're going to do.

"Yes?" Steve prompts.

"Um," Tony thinks quick. "I just wanted to say, good luck today."

"Thanks," Steve says, smiling at him almost shyly.

They're about to have a moment, Tony can tell and despite this whole revelation and the fact that they've most likely got a meeting with Fury today, Tony's not sure he's going to be able to stop himself from cornering Steve and kissing him again. They haven't talked about what happened last night, but from the look Steve's giving him, Tony can tell the idea of just getting back into bed isn't too far from his mind, either.

Unfortunately, before either of them can make a move, there's knock on the door.

"Breakfast," Barton's voice reminds them loudly. Then, quiet enough that they can barely hear, he adds, "I didn't cook all that food so you lazy bastards could sleep the day away."

Tony and Steve share a look, both startled and amused. Tony waits until he hears Barton's footsteps retreating before he bursts into laughter.

"Have you noticed the service here is pretty terrible?" he asks lightly.

Steve nods, grinning. "He doesn't seem to be a very good butler," he agrees.

They make their way downstairs, where Coulson is already waiting. The man waits until Barton has lazily served them before clearing his throat and saying, "General Fury will meet with you this morning."

Excellent, Tony thinks. Everything is going according to plan. Sure, there was a slight bump in the road, what with finding out the truth about Steve's past and all, but it doesn't change anything, not really. And that is the theory he's sticking to, come hell or high water.

Unlike Coulson's pristine but unremarkable townhouse, the residence of General Fury is an honest-to-God mansion. It makes sense, Tony figures: Coulson might need to keep under wraps for his day job, but Fury's day job is to rule the exiled Russian royal class with an iron fist and what better way to do than through shock and awe? Of course, once they're shown in to the General's study, Tony realizes Fury doesn't need a mansion to inspire shock and awe. He has an eye patch for that.

Tony can't help but stare at it, the missing eye. He certainly hadn't had that injury that last time Tony saw him. Of course, that had been ten years ago and Tony had been pretty preoccupied at the time, first with the fact that the man had just interrupted Tony and Steve with their pants still down and then a minute later with the fact that his parents were dead, but still, he remembers Fury's appearance that night very clearly. The man had been dressed as a guard, for some reason, and he'd definitely had both of his eyes. Tony wonders vaguely if lost his eye in the revolution, trying to get Steve out of the country. He figures it's probably better not to ask, though, especially considering the glare Fury's giving him with his one good eye from his spot behind the desk.

"Well," Fury says casually, standing and putting his hands behind his back. "Anton Eduardovich. Why am I not surprised? Why is it that any time someone causes the least bit of trouble around here, I always look for your face?"

"Guilt," Tony tells him succinctly.

Fury gives him a look, completely ignoring Steve for the time being. "What in hell's name would I have to feel guilty about?"

"I don't know," Tony says, shrugging. He didn't realize he was angry about this issue until just now, but seeing Fury makes him seethe with repressed rage. "Maybe telling me my parents were dead and to run and just assuming that would be enough of an explanation. Or how about abandoning me to the streets of Petrograd to starve or get murdered. Everyone else left, you know, or they got killed. There was no one left but me, Fury. Just me, all alone on the streets for ten fucking years!"

"There was no time," Fury says and he sounds regretful, but that's not good enough for Tony, who has apparently been harboring this anger for years. "I had to get the Tsarevich out and it would have looked suspicious enough with just one boy on my tail, let alone two. I don't care if you were having sex with the Tsarevich or not; you weren't him and he was my top priority. I had to get him out."  
Steve says, "Wait, what?" but Tony ignores him.

"Yeah and a great job you did with that, too," Tony spits at Fury. "I've got your fucking Tsarevich right here and guess what? You left him there, too!"

"So you say," Fury says, glancing at Steve at last. "It looks like him, I'll give you that, but don't think I don't know your game, Tony. I may only have one eye now, but I still see what's happening all over the world. My spies have been on you these past few years and they tell me you're a conman. I'll bet you ten million rubles that this is another con, that this poor boy is someone you just dug out of the gutters and convinced to play the Tsarevich for me. I bet he's not even getting an even share of the money, is he?"

"Wait, what?" Steve repeats at a slightly louder volume. "Tony, what's he talking about?"

Tony doesn't have it in him to answer. He knew Steve was going to find out in the end about the con, about the rubles, but he hadn't counted on it hurting this bad, like a knife through his heart. He can't bring himself to look at Steve, to see his eyes wide and hurt.

"This isn't a con," he tells Fury, who snorts in disbelief. "He's the real thing and I fucking deserve those rubles for getting him here. You don't know what I went through to get him out of the fucking country, okay? The Communists were on our tail the whole goddamn time."

"You don't get to make demands of me, boy," Fury says, glare coming back in full force. "Your parents may have been noble, but I was the Tsar's fucking right-hand man. I did what I had to do and I'm still doing it."

He finally turns to look at Steve with his single eye and so does Tony. Steve, though, isn't looking at Fury; he's looking at Tony, and his expression is confused and hurt and so damn beautiful that Tony can't take it.

"Noble?" Steve says quietly, just to Tony. "You said your parents were servants. You lied to me?"

"It wasn't a lie," Tony protests, though he knows it's not going to fly. "I mean, technically, we're all servants of the Tsar, you know?" He gives Steve is best smile and hopes for the best.

"Has this all been a con?" Steve demands, starting to look more pissed off than sad. "Have you been lying to me this whole time, using me this whole time? And for what? For rubles?"

"Ten million rubles," Tony explains, trying to make Steve understand the importance of the whole thing. "It's ten million rubles, Steve. And it's not a lie. I meant what I said: you are the Tsarevich, I'm sure of it now."

"It was an act the whole time, wasn't it?" Steve accuses, looking more and more upset by the second. "All those things I felt- the things you made me feel! And last night! Was that all an act, too? Did you let me do those things, feel those things because I looked like your long lost lover?"

"No!" Tony insists. He takes a step forward, hand outstretch to touch Steve, to make him see. "It's not like that. It was real, everything that happened between us was real, I swear! It wasn't about him, it was just about you and me. And I was going to tell you, I was, about everything!"

"How do I know you're not lying now?" Steve asks viciously. "You've lied about everything else, why not this? After all, anything for ten million rubles, right?"

"I think that's about enough of your lovers' spat," Fury interjects.

"You're right," Steve says to him. "It is enough. I'm done. Find yourself a new Tsarevich, Tony, because I'm through playing one for you."

And with that he's gone, out the door with Tony and Fury staring helplessly after him.

"Pity," Fury says after a moment. "He did look very much like the Tsarevich."

"He is the Tsarevich," Tony says, telling himself that the lump in the throat is because of the loss of the rubles and not because Steve's walked out on him.

"Well, then" Fury says, steepling his fingers and giving Tony a searching look. "You'd better go find him before the Communist spies do, shouldn't you?"

"Oh God," Tony says, smacking a hand to his forehead. "The Communists!" He spares Fury the best withering glare he can manage before rushing out of the room, determined to catch Steve before someone else does. How could he have forgotten about the Reds? It's only been a day since their last encounter and now Steve's out on the street where any one of them could just snatch him up. And for all that Steve's been an orphan for the last ten years, he's never been on the streets, never had to develop the art of escaping from the eyes of the Red government.

Of course, apparently Tony's ten years on the streets don't count for much, either, because he's barely two steps outside Fury's mansion when someone grabs him from behind and presses a cloth over his mouth and nose. He breathes in a startled gasp and can feel whatever chemical is on the rag going to his head immediately. He can feel his legs giving out, feels himself falling, hitting the ground. All he can do is stare up at the sky, at the cold blue and the circling clouds, and between that and the stars clouding his vision, a flash- a flash of red hair. And then, that's it, he's done for.


	9. Chapter 9

With the day Tony's been having, he's far from surprised that the first thing he sees when he blinks awake is Steve, arms and torso tied to the chair he's sitting in, a few feet away from Tony's.

"Hey, buddy," he says, still too out of it to worry about things like the horrific fight they're still in the middle of or the fact that they've both in been caught by the Reds. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Are you okay?" Steve asks at once, which is promising right up until he adds, "I'm still mad at you, but I need to know if you're okay. Did they hurt you?"

Tony does a quick check of all his body parts, moving his toes and fingers to make sure he still can. Apart from being tied up, he seems to be pretty okay. "Yeah, I'm good," he says. "How about you?"

"I'm fine," Steve tells him. "Did you see her?"

"Who?" Tony asks, stomach sinking. The truth is, though, that he knows exactly who Steve's talking about. It's her, the woman, the one who's been following them since Petrograd.

"Oh, he means me," a cold voice says behind him. Tony would whip around to catch a glance, but since he's tied to a chair, that's not really an option.

The woman, when she comes into Tony's line of vision, is even more beautiful than he'd remembered. Her hair is a gorgeous auburn and her wickedly-curved lips look like they'd be smooth as cream to the touch. And her eyes, they're absolutely on fire. Tony's only human, so he can be forgiven for his mouth dropping open. He's seen her, of course, but never this close, and never with the afternoon light shining in through the window to frame her with a golden glow. She looks like an avenging angel, sent down from Heaven to smite Tony for his past sins. She looks like a killer.

"What are you staring at?" she asks, coming to a halt in front of Tony, one hip cocked and arms crossed.

"N-nothing," Tony manages to stutter, though from fear or having the cogs in his brain momentarily stopped by her beauty, he couldn't say. This woman is stunning, but Tony's heard all about what Soviet spies can do to a man, has lived with the fear for the past ten years or so.

The woman smirks. "You've caught the interest of some powerful men, boys. And I must say, my boss is not pleased with how things have worked out."

"Who's your boss?" Steve asks and Tony's impressed by how calm and collected his voice is.

"You'll find out soon enough," she allows, which sounds pretty fucking ominous to Tony, but whatever. "He's got a plan and you two have been fucking it up from the beginning. It's only fair that you do it his way this time. In the meantime, though, I think the three of us should have a little talk."

"We've got nothing to say to you," Tony says, feeling brave. He's sure he'll be less courageous after the torturing starts, but until then, why not take advantage of it?

"Is that so?" she asks motioning to someone behind Tony. "I think you'll change your mind, Anton Eduardovitch, especially once you see what's fallen into my possession."

Tony gapes at her, because seriously, what the fuck? How does she know his name? Just how long has this lady been watching him? He gapes a little bit harder when what must be one of the woman's goons appears out of nowhere, carrying a bag Tony recognizes only too well.

"Remember this?" she asks him, holding it up to taunt him as the goon returns to his previous position somewhere far behind Tony. "You seemed to have forgotten it on the ferry, but don't worry, I collected it for you. It has some very interesting things, in it, as well. A certain book, for one."

Fuck, Tony thinks, closing his eyes. He's really screwed things up this time. If the Reds were looking for proof of his misdeeds, they're all there in that book, just waiting to be read. It had seemed so smart at the time, so clever, keeping record of all his business deals. It gave legitimacy to his business, he thought, and more importantly, stopped anyone from being able to screw him over by switching the numbers at the last minute. With the help of that little book, Tony had become one of the most renowned smugglers in all of Petrograd. He should have known it would all come back to haunt him. He deserves it, he supposes, deserves whatever's coming to him for breaking the law. Not that he's happy about being caught, not that he's not terrified, but he supposes on some level he knows he's never been an especially good person and this is his punishment.

Really, Tony just wishes that there was some way to get Steve out of this mess. Steve, now there's a man who absolutely does not deserve to be in the situation they're currently in. If there was ever a case of wrong place, wrong time, wrong friends, that's Steve all over right now. All the guy ever wanted to do was get to Paris. It's not his fault that he decided it would be a good idea to team up with Tony, and it's certainly not his fault that he's the lost Tsarevich. Maybe there's a way Tony can help Steve, though.

When Tony opens his eyes again, the woman is standing right in front of him, holding his book with one hand and bag with the other. If she was just a little bit closer, Tony could probably kick her. He doesn't have a plan, exactly, but he knows that there's a knife in that bag, kept for emergencies. This is an emergency if Tony's ever seen one. It's certainly a long shot, assuming she even kept the knife in there, but he's fresh out of plans and this might be their only chance. It's worth a try, anyway.

"All right," he says very softly. "I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"Oh?" she says, raising an eyebrow and taking a step forward to hear him better, moving right into Tony's range.

Thanking God that his legs haven't been tied, Tony lines up as best he can in the situation. "I was on the streets as a child," he says, just as quietly. "And we used to play football." It's not the best one-liner he's ever come up with, but it's certainly relevant. He uses her confusion to take his opportunity, kicks out with his right foot and manages to kick the hand that the woman is currently using to hold his bag. She reacts just as he'd hoped, drops the bag in reflex, giving Tony the chance to kick the bag a few feet away while she's recovering from the sudden attack. He manages to see that it's within Steve's range now, if he stretches, before the slap comes.

He expected it, but he's learned with things like this that it's better to not tense up, to just let them happen. It's a powerful slap, not surprising considering the woman is a vicious Soviet spy. The force of her hand makes Tony's whole head turn and stings like a sonofabitch. It's going to leave a handprint, he's sure, but he manages to see as he's wincing through the pain that Steve's managed to get the bag with his feet and the woman hasn't even noticed.

"Let's try this again," she says, dropping his book and pulling her own knife out of her belt. It's nothing fancy, her weapon, but the steel looks sharp and she holds the thing like a woman who knows how to use it. "Tell me everything. Why did you leave the country?"

Gulping at the sight of that sharp, deadly knife, Tony decides he'd better just go with it and tell her the truth. If everything goes according to plan, Steve should be able to get that knife and hopefully they can escape, in which case it won't matter what he says to her. If that doesn't work out, though, he's sure this woman will get the truth out of him eventually, and Tony'll skip the torturing, thanks.

"Okay," he says, sparing a glance at Steve, who's gotten the bag in front of him and is using his feet to open the flap. "Alright. Look, here's the thing. He's the Tsarevich."

The woman rolls her eyes and brings her knife closer to his throat. "Don't fuck with me, Anton. I know all about the rubles and all about the con. I want the truth."

"That is the truth!" Tony insists with all the righteousness of a man about to be knifed for refusing to lie. "He's the Tsarevich and I can prove it."

She nods at him to go on, so he continues. He hadn't wanted it to come to this, especially because Steve's going to hear it all as well, but he figures what with everything Steve's already found out, this little tidbit probably won't hurt much. And heck, maybe it will even help his cuase on that front, Steve finding out that Tony wasn't lying when he said he was the Tsarevich.

"There's a locket," he blurts out. "He's wearing a locket, one he's had since before he lost his memory. I didn't know until yesterday, but he's been wearing it this whole time, under his clothes."

"That's your proof," she says flatly. "Some locket."

"It's not just any locket," Tony explains quickly, worried he's going to lose her attention and she'll notice Steve, who's got the knife in one of his tied hands and is trying to cut his ropes from the odd angle. "It's a one-of-a-kind. Only one person in the whole world ever had one of those. I know, because I made it and then I gave it to the Tsarevich, just before the Revolution. He's got the locket, so he's the Tsarevich."

"I don't believe you," she says, taking a step back. "You're lying to me, trying to save your own skin by incriminating him."

"No," Tony says quickly. "It's true, it's all true. We were lovers when we were teenagers and I gave it to him as a gift. It's got our names and the year etched inside it, inside a little heart. And, and it's not just a locket, either. It's a music box. It plays music when you open it, if you can get it open."

"I've never heard of a music box being small enough to wear around a person's neck," she says dismissively. "I think you're lying about this whole thing. What reason could you possibly have had for making this little gift to the Tsarevich."

"I loved him, okay?" Tony says defensively. "I fucking loved him. I loved him and then I thought he was dead for ten years. And now, now he's not dead, he's sitting right over there, but he's not the same person, anyway and he doesn't even remember me. So there. Happy? Are you happy now that you've gotten all of my secrets?"

"I bet you've got more secrets in there, somewhere," she says, mouth kicking up on one side. "And I'm going to get them out of you."

She steps forward again and Tony leans as far back in the seat as he can, away from the sharp end of her knife. He doesn't, as a matter of fact. That really is all of his secrets, all of them out there for the world to hear and he's got nothing left to tell her. He's sure that won't stop her from cutting him, though, even if she does believe him.

"Stop," Steve says firmly. "Don't move."

And that, of course, is when Tony realizes that somehow, Steve's managed to get out of his restraints in record time and is standing just behind the woman, knife apparently pressed to the small of her back. She's still got her own knife in her hand, though, and Tony's willing to bet that between the two of them, she's better trained to handle weapons. The crazy smile that spreads across her face is proof that Steve's going to get his ass handed to him.

"You're making a mistake," she tells Steve softly. "I can tell you've never handled a knife before in your life."

"Maybe not," Steve admits, sounding so much braver than Tony feels. "But I'm not backing down."

"I'm glad to hear that," says another voice from somewhere behind Tony, a voice that Tony recognizes at once.

"Fury," he hisses, trying to turn his head to see the man. "Jesus, just what the fuck is going on here? Are you working with the Communists now?"

"Don't be stupid," Fury says, strolling into Tony's line of vision. To the woman he says, "Natasha, lower your weapon. Or better yet, get this idiot out of these ropes."

The woman, Natasha, apparently, complies. Tony holds his breath as she comes at him with the knife, but she just cuts efficiently at his bonds. He's up and out of the chair the minute he's free, taking a few giant steps away from the lady and trying to rub the pins and needles out of his arms.

"No seriously," Tony says. He's feeling wrong-footed and confused. "What the hell is going on here?"

Fury's one visible eye narrows at Tony. "Use your goddamn head, Tony. Did you really think that I was just going to announce to the world that there was a reward for the Tsarevich and just wait for conmen like you to bring in their fakes? Do I look stupid? I've had my people in the country undercover for years, I told you that. They've been searching the countryside and cities, looking for the Tsarevich. I knew that money would be the way to bring him out of the woodwork. And I was right."  
Here, he turns away from Tony and toward Steve, who's still got a solid grip on his knife and is looking just as confused as Tony feels, if not more.

"Me?" Steve asks carefully.

"You," Fury agrees. "You look just like him, but I knew there was only one way to get the truth out of our devious friend here." He indicates Tony with a nod of his head. "Let me see the locket."

Looking terribly reluctant, Steve sets his knife down on the ground and pulls his locket over his head. He holds it up for Fury to see, but refuses to just hand it over, which makes something like hope swell inside Tony. If Steve's still attached to the thing, even after finding out its history, maybe he'll be able to forgive Tony for the lies eventually.

"There's a clasp," Tony puts in. "It's hard to find, unless you've seen it being opened."

Steve looks at him then down at the locket in his hand. He blinks slowly a few times, then reaches out with shaking fingers and runs his fingers along the side, stopping at the exact point where the clasp is. He pushes it and it opens.

The music that fills the room is just as soft and sweet as Tony remembers it and he's so, so happy to hear it playing again after all this time. He could cry, if he let himself, but he doesn't. This won't change anything. He's still trapped in a web of lies and tricks that he doesn't fully understand, and Steve still doesn't remember who he used to be.

Abruptly, the music cuts off and Tony looks up to see Steve staring at him, hand closed and eyes so full of confusion that it breaks Tony's heart. Before he can think of anything to say, though, Fury nods firmly and clears his throat.

"Right," he says. "That proves it, then. The last time I heard that song was right before I walked in on the two of you with your pants down. You've convinced me. Now that that's settled, let's get down to business. I never expected to have the Tsarevich back, but now that you're here, there are plans to be put in motion."

"Wait," Tony says quickly. "This doesn't explain anything! You still haven't told us what the fuck is going on. Have you just been having your spies follow us the whole time? How did you even find us in the first place?"

"I certainly took some doing," Natasha says, voice dull. "If I hadn't been under orders not to interfere, we would have all been here days ago with much less hassle. You boys certainly know how to travel in style, though, I'll admit."

"Hey," Tony says, taking offense to that. "It's all your fault we had to do what we did. If you just would have left well enough alone we never would have had to jump off that train or into the river. It's your fault, if anyone's."

"Let's not turn this into a catfight," Fury interrupts. "Think about it, Tony. I've had men on you for years. Do you really think I wouldn't know your plans regarding the Tsarevich? I know what you're capable of and I know what you're willing to do. That's why this little ploy was necessary, to get the truth."

"Well," Tony says stiffly, angry that he's been tricked and still not entirely sure he's with the program. "You've got it. Now what are you going to do with us? Do I at least get my freaking rubles, or what?"

"If you want," Fury allows. "But I think I've got something you'll like more."

"Yeah?" Tony asks. He's not sure what he would like more than rubles, but he's willing to hear the man out. "Like what?"

"Like an opportunity," Fury says cryptically. "Like I said, I know what you're capable of. This operation I'm running, it's more than it seems. I was looking for the Tsarevich, certainly, but not for the reasons you thought, I bet."

"Wait," Steve interrupts. "So you really think I'm the Tsarevich?"

"I know you are," Fury tells him. "And I've got a special job for you, if you're willing to take it. For your lover, too, if he wants."

Tony bristles at someone else calling him Steve's lover, but ignores it. "Well, don't keep us in suspense," he says. "What's the job?"

"At the point in time," Fury says. "There's no way I would be able to announce to the world that the Tsarevich is still alive. Not now, not with the current political climate. It's too dangerous. The Tsarevich does, however, have a certain skill set, one that royalty must have, one that will come in handy on this job."

"And what's that?" Steve asks.

"Adaptability," Fury explains. "You're highly adaptable, a quick learner, and exceptionally brave. From watching you, I can tell that you pick up cues without needing them spelled out and are willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. With all of that and your knowledge of both the upper and lower classes, you're the perfect man to lead the team I'm putting together for undercover work in the Soviet sphere."

"What?" Tony says, shocked. "You want us to go back in there? We just barely got out with our lives."

"Well, it's obviously up to you," Fury says, unconcerned. "You're brilliant and we could use your skills and connections, but we certainly won't beg. But you, I think, stand a lot to gain from this opportunity. Think about it and get back to me. And don't take your time about it."

He turns, obviously getting ready to leave, when Tony remembers something, the one question he still has about this whole thing. "Wait," he says quickly. "One more thing: how did Steve even end up in that orphanage in the first place?"

Fury sighs and turns back to them. "How specifically, I have no idea. We didn't even know he was there until he admitted as much to you. Suffice it to say that there were complications that night that I didn't expect and leave it at that. If you want more, you're not going to get it."

Then he turns again and marches out of the room, Natasha on his heels. That just leaves Tony and Steve, staring at one another, both shell-shocked and terribly confused.

"I'm still mad at you," Steve says at last.

"Right," Tony says, accepting this for what it is. "Did I say I was sorry about all those lies? Because I totally am, I swear. It's just, you know, dangerous times or whatever, can't be too careful about who you spill your guts to."

"Don't give me that," Steve says angrily. "I'm not just anybody, Tony. Tell me the truth: how long have you known that I was the Tsarevich?"

"Since last night," Tony admits. "Since I saw your locket."

"So before that, when we… when we made love. You didn't know then?"

Tony shakes his head.

"Then all of those things we said and did, those were just me? They didn't have anything to do with your history with him?" Steve looks so hopeful Tony's breath catches in his chest.

"It was just you," Tony tells him. "I mean, he is you, but it's different. Even if- even if you remembered everything, you're still a different person. We're both different now, and everything that happened between us, that was just us, just you and me."

"Then why didn't you just tell me when you realized?" Steve asks, sounding like he's trying so hard to understand.

"I was a little scared, okay?" Tony admits. "You don't remember, obviously, but it was hard, back when we were kids and you were the Tsarevich. It wasn't an easy way to have a relationship and I thought that once Fury saw you, he'd know you were legitimate and make you the Tsarevich again. Obviously, I was wrong, but I thought that if you knew, we'd have to go back to being a secret, and I didn't want that to happen. Plus, I mean, it looks bad, you know, with the rubles and everything."

"Are you still going to take them?" Steve asks.

"Well," Tony considers. "I mean, there is the offer to consider. Fury wants us on his little team or whatever. And if you're not the Tsarevich anymore, we wouldn't have to keep it such a secret, what we've got going on between us." Something occurs to him, then, and he looks at Steve sharply. "That is, you know, if you still want there to be something between us."

"I do," Steve says softly, stepping into Tony's personal space. "I just want to make sure you understand that I'm not him, Tony, and I'm never going to be. There's a good chance I'll never remember anything that happened when we were teenagers together."

"I get it," Tony insists. "I told you, that doesn't matter. I- I kinda love you, Steve. Not because of who you were then, but because of who you are now." It's possibly the sappiest thing he's ever said, and he'd be sort of disgusted with himself, except that the look on Steve's face is so open and full of the same love that Tony's feeling. He's only really known this man a week, not counting all the things that happened before and don't matter now, but he's sure that this man could be the love of his life.

"I love you, too," Steve says, smiling. "I think we should take Fury's offer."

Tony shrugs. He's pretty much leaning that way, too. What the hell would he do with ten million rubles, anyway? This way, he gets to be with Steve, not a secret but a promise, and knowing Fury, he'll never be bored again.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Sounds good. First, though, let's get a room together, yeah?"  
Steve just laughs and kisses him.

"So this is the team, huh?" Tony asks surveying the room. He and Steve are on one side of the conference table, not-so-secretly holding hands underneath while two other people sit across from them and give them disgusted looks. One of the people is Natasha, who bears the nickname 'Black Widow,' which Tony will admit makes him very nervous, especially considering how they met. The other person is none other than the terrible butler Barton, whose skill set apparently runs more toward undercover operations than running a household.

"Shut up," Fury tells him from the head of the table and gets on with the presentation. "This," he says, passing around a photograph, "is our objective. He's a Soviet scientist that turned up in the last few years out of nowhere. We know very little about him, only that he's rising very quickly through the ranks of their science department and has been deemed a threat."

"Oh my God," Tony interrupts as Steve passes Tony the picture after a cursory glance. The man in the picture is familiar, someone Tony thought he'd never see again. "That's Bruce! We used to work together."

"There you go," Fury says. "You have your in, then. The mission objective is to get in and get him out with as little notice as possible. Mission parameters will be in the briefing packet. Any questions, ask Coulson, or better yet, figure them out yourselves. Dismissed."

"Huh," Tony says as Fury storms out of the room. "What are the odds?"

"Considering this is you we're talking about, I'd say very high," Natasha says.

"Serendipity," Barton concludes. "Besides, you know everyone, Tony."

It's true, he kind of does.

"Are you ready to head back into enemy territory?" Steve asks, eyes wide and concerned and totally full of love.

Tony just smiles at him. "With you," he says honestly. "I'm ready for anything."


End file.
